


Lights, Camera, F*ck You

by neocitybynight



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocitybynight/pseuds/neocitybynight
Summary: Fade in. You’re one of Hollywood’s hottest rising stars, and have just landed the role of a lifetime in the Johnny Seo’s upcoming 1950s period piece. Unfortunately, your co-star is none other than Hollywood’s most notorious playboy Haechan Lee, one of your absolute least favorite people in Tinseltown. As plots unfold, fake relationships are born, and hearts are broken, it may be hard to keep the drama strictly onscreen.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Lights, Camera, F*ck You

**INT. BYUN STUDIOS - DAY [AUGUST]  
**

“You’re kind of a princess, you know that?” He takes a drag from his cigarette, leaning back lazily, slick honey-colored hair and leather jacket stark against the cherry red of his Mustang.

“And you’re a little dangerous,” you say. His eyes follow as you walk towards him, plucking the cigarette from his hand and placing it between puckered lips. When you pull back, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, the paper is stained a shiny pink from your lip gloss. “Mama warned me about guys like you, you know.”

“Yeah?” he leans forward, one hand sliding to your hip, the gesture casual, yet possessive. “And what did she say?”

“She said you’ll break my heart.”

For one heartbeat, then another, he stares at you, then he pulls you roughly towards him, crushing his lips to yours. He tastes of salt, heat, just a tinge of nicotine, which sets your lips tingling as you fall into his kiss. Your hands press into his chest, leather and vinyl crinkling under your fingers...

“And cut!” The soundstage bell rings, and the muffled sound of check the gate sounds as various PAs and PD personnel run forward. You and Haechan break apart, already staring daggers as a PA approaches, holding two down jackets.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss, eyes narrowing as you allow her to place the heavy coat around your shoulders. Haechan just hands the prop cigarette to the PA, pulling a slim Juul from his costume jacket and taking a long hit, smoke pearly white in the warm summer air. “I almost fell.”

“Doesn’t matter, they would’ve called it in a second anyway,” he says, wiping a smudge of gloss from his mouth with ill-disguised disgust. “You know you kiss like a fish, right?”

“Fucking h-”

“Hey, you guys,” Renjun Huang, the young assistant director, materializes at your side. Adjusting the headset dangling from one ear, he speaks quickly. “We’re calling a thirty for lunch, so head over to crafty and get whatever, then stop by Johnny’s office. The suits are here, and they want to get a look at their leads. So go over there, laugh and smile, do what you need to do, then we’re going to set up for Scene 14 rehearsals, okay?”

Before you have the chance to answer, he scurries off, barking at some AC or other for a monitor so he can check focus. He’s such a hard worker, you think, pulling your jacket around you as you walk to the craft services van. Grabbing a sandwich and Cola from the caterers, you take a monster bite, quelling your growling stomach a little as you drag yourself over to the backlot building where Johnny’s office is located.

Inside the office, it’s chaos. Oscar-winning director Johnny Seo is yelling, towering over a smaller man in a suit, while one of his producers - Jungwoo, you think his name is? - tries to hold him back. The smattering of workers typing away in cubicles outside have either put in headphones, or are frantically searching their desk drawers. Haechan sits in the corner, looking bored with the whole thing.

“This is a film set, not a brothel,” Johnny growls. “I will not have you meddling with my actors, Bang.”

At your entrance, everyone looks up. “Hey, hey, if it isn’t my favorite starlet-in-the-making.” The man whom Johnny addressed as _Bang_ extricates himself from the furious director, walking over and shaking your hand. He’s young, handsome, with a shock of dyed-blond hair and a winning smile on his face. You mistrust him already. “I’m Chris Bang, from the network, lovely to meet you. You’re playing Ellie, correct?”

“That’s me,” you say, giving him a thin-lipped smile as he walks around you, inspecting you like he would a prize pony.

“I just wanted to say, I loved your work on A Physician’s Guide to Love and Medicine, bang-on,” he says. “I mean, cable is cable, but wow. And your work here with Haechan? From the dailies I’ve seen, your chemistry is off the charts.”

You nod as he pauses from breath, wondering where this is all going. The network doesn’t just drop in to say hi. “So, old Johnny-boy and I were having a little talk,” he says, and from behind him, Johnny makes a face. “The fans are already going crazy over the teaser images, and so we thought, why not amp it up a little?”

He looks at you with the air of a gameshow host, waiting for you to ask what’s behind Door 3. “We thought it might be nice if you and Haechan spent a little more time together. Nothing big mind you, just, you know, normal stuff like grocery shopping, lunches, maybe get ‘caught’ leaving a club together or something.”

“You want us to date,” Haechan says flatly.

“Well, no, not really,” Chris says. “Just until the promotions for Cherry Bomb are over. Then you can release a statement saying you had to separate over differences, and then you’ll be on your merry way. But after that teaser pic dropped last week, fans are shipping you big time. I’m talking trending hashtags, fanfiction, fanart, the whole Tumblr shebang.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen?” Chris pulls out his phone, flipping to show you a candid photo of you and Haechan standing together. You’re in costume - you in that stupid pink poodle skirt, he in his leather jacket - laughing, hand on his arm, and he’s looking down at you with what you can only describe as stars in his eyes.

“You just look so good together,” Chris says, voice dripping with showmanship. “I can just see it, you met during your chemistry read, you know, before casting was announced, and you just felt this inescapable connection, this pull, and you just knew you were right for the ro-”

“No.” Haechan stands up.

All eyes snap to him. “No, this is beyond stupid,” he says. “Between Cherry Bomb and the new series I’m recording for Disney, the last thing I need right now is to be tied to some rookie cable actor. Go find yourself someone else. I’m not going to be your dream boy, Bang.”

He slams the door, causing the glass to shake. Everyone just stands there for a moment. _If anyone else did that, they would be fired in about a second,_ you think. _But not Haechan. He has built-in deniability._

The thought makes your lip curl, almost as much as the studio trying to force a fake relationship onto you. As much as you dislike Haechan, maybe you should be a little thankful for his tantrum. “Well, if that’s all,” you say, standing. “I should probably be getting back to set. And I’m sorry about my costar, he tends to...ruffle some feathers, but I’m sure a solution can be reached.”

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose, trying and failing for a jovial smile. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m sure he’ll come around sooner or later. But thank you for stopping in, I’m very excited to see what you bring to the role.”

With a mumbled thanks, and an awkward nod to the execs, you leave Johnny’s office. It’s a beautiful day in LA, the kind of day that shows up in postcards, fluffy sheep clouds set against the wide blue sky over the Hollywood sign. A day for lounging at the beach with an iced tea and heart-shaped sunglasses, except for you, it’s an unreasonable request and a starched costume blouse with boob sweat.

Rowan, your pantsuited publicist, zips over to you, Louboutins clicking across the concrete. “Cute,” she says, wrinkling her nose at your unsubtle attempts to wipe between your breasts. “Meeting with the execs?”

“Johnny’s fighting with the studio again because they want to pimp me and Pretty Boy Lee out.”

“Ah,” she says. “I thought that might happen.”

“Apparently the fans are shipping us after a rehearsal photo dropped,” you complain, throwing your hands up. “Idiots on the internet will believe anything. Haechan might be an entitled manbaby, but I’m glad he refused.”

“He refused?” Rowan stops dead. “Oh, no, no, this is not good.” She pulls out her phone and begins tapping away.

“What? Look, the less time I have to spend with him, the better,” you say. “I don’t see how pretending to date would be that useful anyway.”

"Hey.” Rowan snaps her fingers. “Eyes on me. You may have been one of last season’s breakouts, but you’re still green. Any bit of publicity is good publicity.”

“And what about him?"

“He has a famous daddy,” Rowan says, marching you over to makeup and shoving you into a canvas chair, motioning for a makeup artist. “And that Netflix original he did last summer has the panties practically peeling at this point. He doesn’t need the help. You do.”

You close your eyes as the girl whisks a fluffy brush over your skin. “Okay, so what should I do then, Cupid?”

“Talk to him. Spin it as good publicity, suck his dick or whatever,” she says. “You’re pretty, you’re charming, work your magic.”

Patting your head patronizingly (your hair-sprayed ponytail crunches slightly) she waves off the makeup artist and shoves you towards set. “Remember. Cherry Bomb is one of the most anticipated films of the year. I’m talking Oscar watchlist, international press junkets, huge merch deals. And the trailer hasn’t even dropped yet. This is could be a big break for you, so don’t fuck it up. Be sexy, be shippable. Make them love you, and you’ve won half the game already.”

* * *

**JIMMY FALLON TRANSCRIPT 2/11/20 [ARCHIVE LOG]**

_So this show, A Physician’s Guide to Love and Murder, it’s one of your first major projects, right?_

Yeah, it is! Probably the only one at this point [laughs]

_I mean, you’d never know. It’s phenomenal, really is, my wife and I have been binging it lately._

Oh, Jimmy, you’re too kind.

_No, really, it’s not just because you’re coming on the show, I genuinely got so invested. Your whole storyline with Dr. Lei? I’m on the edge of my seat, with that cliffhanger finale._

You and me both.

_You mean you don’t have any spoilers? Why did I bring you on here then? [wheezes] I’m kidding. But no, really, with your SAG and Emmy nominations, it’s clear that there’s something special about the show. Did it feel like that, when you were working on it?_

I mean you know what they say, work is work. You used to act, you were on SNL for a while, you know how stripped down it all is behind the scenes. I don’t think, even if you’re working with a cast and crew as phenomenal as this one, even with the amazing scripts from Xiao Dejun and Hendery Wong, you never know what it’s going to look like until after.

_Yeah, yeah, I mean that’s big as well, having a team that really gels well together. As well as cast! Are there any particular people you really enjoyed working with?_

Oh, man. Yeah, you know, something that distinguishes us from other medical dramas that are on right now is our age – since we’re playing med students, it was pretty much a mishmash of twentysomethings around the same age, all staying in the same area in LA to shoot. It was kind of like living in a frat house [laughs]. But yeah, I’m probably closest with the people I shot the most scenes with, like Jaemin Na, Jeno Lee, Ryujin Shin, Mark Lee, and of course Yangyang Liu, who plays Dr. Lei.

_Oh yeah, you two were such a riot, you had an on-set TikTok account, right?_

Oh, no, you saw my TikToks? Let me just—I’m kidding. Yeah, he literally just burst into my trailer one night and was like, ‘hey there’s this app where people post dances and stuff.’

_That’s amazing, though, I feel like especially for the younger generation, you’re bringing in a lot of fans who might not have just watched it outright. Great stuff._

I’m glad you think videos of us, like, throwing pasta around and dabbing is entertaining.

_Literally, forget internet cats. I have some screenshots of your most popular videos here with me and I’m laughing just looking._

No, oh, the smoothie wars, I hate that. And you have the naked sushi prank? Jimmy, you’re exposing me. Mom, are you watching?

_Hey, I’d be proud to have you as my kid. My wife always wants to just give your character a hug after every episode, you play that doe-eyed ingenue so well, even through everything that happens to you._

Yeah, I know, I’m joking. My whole family has been so supportive throughout this all. I only wish I had more time to be home right now, but…

_Right, right, because not only are you promoting this show, but I heard you just recently got cast in an upcoming John Seo film?_

Yes! Cherry Bomb. I’m so excited.

_I mean this must be huge for you, you know, working with the director who won Best Picture last year, among a ton of other awards._

Right, for Kick It. Working with John Seo was always, like, a bucket list thing for me – I mean, they’re calling him this generation’s Tarantino, right? And now I get to work with him, such a dream come true.

_And then of course, you’re co-starring with Haechan Lee._

This is true.

_You didn’t know each other prior to casting, right?_

No, not at all. I think I’d seen Midnight Love or something, but the first time we met was at chemistry reads. The only time, actually, since we don’t start filming until July. But, I’m excited to be working together, John Seo is lucky to have him.

_Either way, you’re certainly going to have an eventful summer._

Tell me about it, I’m sweating already.

_Okay, now in this clip, you’re in an on-call room, right? You and Dr. Lei are talking about…remind me?_

So they hooked up after the hospital’s masquerade ball, and are now debating whether or not to tell his girlfriend, who’s hooking with Dr. Kim, but neither of them know that he likes Dr. Mars…

* * *

**INT. BEVERLY HILLS - NIGHT [AUGUST]**

“Fuck Hollywood,” you say, flopping back across Mark’s lap, placing your beer onto the table with a clunk. It’s Friday, one of your rare nights off, so you’ve decided to waste it with your Physician’s Guide cast members, eating bad pizza and drinking like a pirate.

“Aw, Seo’s muse not feeling so good?” Mark says, scratching the top of your head as he pulls a coaster over, placing the sweating glass bottle on top. 

“I’m so tired, and we’re not even halfway through shooting,” you sigh, rolling over and grabbing a slice of pizza from the yawning box on the coffee table.

“Yo, is that the last pepperoni?” Ryujin says. Devoid of makeup and her designer wardrobe - she’s currently being courted as this season’s Versace rep - she looks like just another normal twentysomething, in grey sweatpants and a fitted white tee.

“Yeah, but there’s cheese and margherita left,” you say, shrugging. 

From his position on the couch opposite, Yangyang Liu snorts. “How generous,” he says, toasting you with his lime-salted Corona. His hair is messy, reddish brown spikes spilling out over a loud Supreme headband.

“I don’t even know why you’re bothering with our lowly peasant food,” Ryujin says, taking a bite of floppy cheese and frowning. “Is it true that Cherry Bomb gets catered crafty?” 

“You get what?” Jeno sits up, a confused noise rolling from his throat. 

“Yeah, some company called God’s Menu, they do Tarantino’s and Nolan’s sets too,” you say. 

“God, the last Geico commercial I did just handed me a meal voucher for Popeye’s,” Yangyang groans. “I need a new role besides Physician’s Guide. Please tell me who I need to-”

“Liu, shh,” you say, nudging your chin at Chenle. “There are children here.”

“I’m not a kid,” Chenle protests. “I’m turning nineteen this year, remember?”

“And you’re still playing my sixteen-year-old brother on TV,” you say, draining your beer and motioning to Jeno for another. He tosses it to you, along with the opener. “Baby.”

“So does being cast in a Seo film mean that you’re not coming back next season?” Yangyang says. 

“And miss getting to hook up with you in more on-call rooms? I could never,” you say, pinching his cheek fondly.

“Good. I heard Dejun and Hendery are working on a crazy arc next season,” he says. “Expanding on the love triangle between Vance, Mars, and Kim, plus there’s a possible paternity thing?”

“Paternity?” You almost spit out your beer. “Jesus.”

“Who’s getting a paternity test?” Jaemin emerges from the kitchen, hands encased in flowery pink oven mitts, holding a giant plate of steaming nachos.

“Wait, do we have pico?” Chenle jumps up, running for the fridge. “Oh, oh, I want queso too.”

“It’s all on the tray, piggy,” Jaemin calls. Jeno pulls a flower pot and a stack of magazines off the table to make room for the big tray.

“Honestly, my money’s on Nana having a kid,” you say. “Everyone at the hospital is so fucked up, they can only have that nice pediatric surgeon thing going for so much longer.”

“Nice guys are underrated,” Jaemin says. “My character’s the one normal person, they wouldn’t just get rid of that.”

“Well, you know what they say,” you say, waggling your eyebrows. “It’s always the ones you least expect.”

“Amen,” Mark says, inclining his head as he drains his beer. 

You while the rest of the night away with another 30-pack of Coors, Jaemin’s delicious nachos and homemade queso, and more industry chatter. Jeno is in the middle of recounting the horribly awkward dinner date he had with Willow Smith when your phone rings. Rowan.

“Hang on, gotta take this,” you say, standing.

“Ohhhh, stop, baby, shit, don’t stop,” Yangyang moans loudly. 

“Shut up, this is my publicist,” you say, stepping out into the hallway. “Rowan, what’s up?” 

“Two things,” she says crisply. “One, I’ve booked you for Lip Synch Battle and Corden in November. You’re welcome. Two, you and Haechan are scheduled for a Vogue shoot next weekend.”

“Vogue?”

“Yeah, it’s just their LA branch, but it’ll be a nice bit of publicity. You’ll be in the December edition, which ties in nicely with Cherry Bomb’s Christmas release,” she says.

“Oh, we have a set date now?”

“Christmas Day,” she singsongs. “Jingle Bells and partridges and pear trees, you know how it goes.”

“Rowan, no one says that,” you sigh, rubbing your aching head. “Gah, I’m really not looking forward to promoting with him.”

“Hey,” Rowan snaps. “Remember what I said - all publicity is good publicity. Did you get him to say yes to the producers’ plan yet?”

“It’s been less than 24 hours.”

“I’ve seen reality stars fall in love in less.”

“Rowan, I’m still not 100% comfortable with this,” you say. “Also, I really shouldn’t be making decisions right now, if you get my drift. Can I call you in the morning?”

Rowan clucks. “Glad you’re making responsible decisions. It’s not like there’s an entire production riding on your back or anything.”

“Don’t ‘responsible decisions’ me,” you shoot back. “I’m a grown-up, not your naughty kid.”

“You are?” Rowan’s voice drips sarcasm. “Then start acting like one. Hollywood isn’t all sunshine and bunnies, sometimes you need to pull your head out of your pussy and do what’s best for the production. And right now? It’s getting that silver-spooned daddy’s boy wrapped around your finger. Think you can do that, grown-up?”

Annoyance lances through you at her condescending words, but you nod. Then remember she can’t see you. “Fine.”

“Fantastic,” she says. “Lucky for you, you’ve got a blocking rehearsal tomorrow, remember? Byun Studios Soundstage 3, be there at 10.”

“10:30?”

“10:15, say there was traffic and grab a Starbucks,” she says. “Just make sure you’re bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, ready to work. Sleep tight, and remember…”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite? Rowan, you’re so sweet,” you deadpan.

“Clever. I was going to say don’t fuck things up with Haechan, but that too. Night.”

* * *

**INT. BYUN STUDIOS - DAY [AUGUST]**

You roll up to rehearsal at exactly 10:15, a horrible Venti concoction of overpriced coffee and fake sweetener clutched in your hand. You thank the driver, already feeling less than enthusiastic about the day. You’re supposed to be working with AD Renjun and Haechan on a shooting sequence that involves a practical stunt, so you need to get every movement planned out to a T. The set has been dressed as a library, resplendent with tall mahogany shelves, carrels and tables with lamps that really turn on and off, and row upon row of books organized by the Dewey Decimal System. PD is, as always, flawless.

Less flawless is the rehearsal taking place. “Again,” Renjun calls. Cracking your neck from side to side, you walk down the aisle. Sliding a finger down the spine of a book, you let the Ellie energy flow into you. A hardworking high school senior, always the good girl, flawless from her ponytail to her bobby socks. Jack, on the other hand, is a loose canon, a greaser from the wrong side of the tracks, someone she shouldn’t be attracted to but there’s just something about him.

“Book!” Renjun calls. Counting to three, you pull a book from the shelf. “Drop!”

You hear Haechan clear his throat, and spin, dropping the book. His hand snakes out, reaching for it, but just misses the catch, and it falls to the floor with a thump. “Fuck.”

“Okay, cut, cut,” Renjun says. This is close to the fiftieth time you’ve attempted this stunt, and Haechan’s only caught it a handful of times.

“I’m sorry,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “I’m not sure-”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Renjun says, that ever-present gentle smile on his face. “Take ten, breathe, I’ll send Sandy to Starbucks for more coffee, and we’ll work it out.”

Giving your shoulder a sympathetic pat, he exits the studio, closing the door softly behind him. Haechan picks up the book, face unreadable. “Let’s go again. I’ll call cues.”

You nod, walking back to the tape ‘x’ marking your starting spot. “Action!” You walk down the shelf, running a finger down the dusty spines of classic novels - Austen, by the look of them. Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Mansfield Park. Full of sexual tension, mutual pining, dashing love interests who are absolute assholes, but it all gets solved in under 400 pages. If only life were so simple.

“Book.” At Haechan’s cue, you pull Pride and Prejudice from the shelf. “Drop!”

Spinning, you pretend to jump as Haechan looms over you, the book tumbling from your hands. It hits the floor with a dismal thud, leaving him frustrated with his hand outstretched.

He sighs, the sound long and mournful. “You really are hopeless, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple stunt,” he says. “I can’t tell if you’re intentionally milking more time with me, Huang, or if you’re just genuinely bad at practical stunts.”

“Maybe if you could actually catch it, we wouldn’t still be here,” you shoot back.

Haechan pinches the bridge of his nose, rings glittering under the studio lights. “Let’s go again.”

You repeat the sequence again, and again the book hits the floor. After the fourth time, Haechan stalks over to one of the wooden prop study carrels, throwing himself into it with the air of a sleep-deprived parent dealing with a stubborn toddler.

“When they said they were casting an unknown, I really thought that just meant you’re not famous,” he sighs. “I didn’t think it meant you know nothing about shooting a major Hollywood movie.”

“Haechan, can I ask you something?” you say, slamming the book onto a nearby end table, exasperation coloring your voice. “What do you have against me? Genuinely.”

“Genuinely?” Haechan says, rubbing the nonexistent stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Genuinely nothing, I just think you’re underqualified and overpaid for this job. We’ve been at this for nearly three hours, and you still can’t drop a book.”

“And you can’t catch it,” you say. “Look, I’m sorry if I don’t meet up to your standards. Actually, no, I’m not. I spent my time in acting school, I fucked around on cable commercials for years. I worked hard to be here, unlike certain entitled industry babies. I don’t know where you get off on being so rude to me, but we’re supposed to be professionals. And I don’t know if I can do that when all you do is make fun of my experience and refuse to work with me like a normal scene partner. I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m ripping my arm off every time we shoot a scene, but you know what?”

You mime gnawing off your arm at the elbow. “That’s exactly how I feel, Lee.” You’re breathing heavily, practically spitting with anger, but Haechan just leans back, looking bored, the band of sunlight filtering in through the cut-glass window bisecting his face into light and shadow, a perfect portrait of chiaroscuro.

“Are you finished?” 

“With you? Yes,” you snap, getting up. You take two steps, and then feel a hand on your wrist. Spinning, you find Haechan looking at you, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. Looking down at your nails, he raises an eyebrow, brushing a silver-ringed thumb over the chipped nail polish.

“Sparkly blue? Somehow I doubt that’s very 50s.”

“Ryujin painted them at the party, I’ll get them fixed tomorrow,” you say, tearing your hand away. Your skin feels fevered, flushed from the juxtaposition of metal against skin. 

“Somehow, I don’t think Huang will be happy if we show up to the shoot and still can’t do the stunt,” he says, ruffling a hand through his dark hair. Your eyes snag on the column of his throat, where a thin silver chain sits against the pale gold skin, dusted with a small constellation of freckles. A purplish bruise blooms just under his collarbone, dark and fresh. 

Unbidden, a vignette of skin on skin, teeth digging into the softness of your throat, hands tangled in honey-colored hair, a whisper of passion across your lips, flickers through your mind, quick as a candle flame but out just as quickly, leaving only simmering annoyance in its wake. 

“Are you fucking serious?” You tear your eyes away from the hickey, shaking your head to clear it, crossing your arms as you glare at him.

“As a pandemic. And it’ll be your head on the plate if we can’t do it, since, as you so astutely said, I’m an entitled industry baby,” Haechan says calmly. 

“Will you shut up and trust that I’m a solid enough actor to make this work?”

He tilts his head to one side, and you can feel, more than see, his eyes caress your eyes, nose, cheeks, the curve of your lips. It’s an artist’s appraisal, a co-star looking at a scene partner for that spark of connection, but you feel your cheeks flooding with heat at the way his gaze just strips you bare, reducing you to spare parts and a ticking clock of a heartbeat, something to be molded, used, in the name of artistry.

Haechan leans in, so close you can feel his soft exhale against the shell of your ear, then the stiff cover of the book against your breasts as he presses it into your crossed arms. “Prove it,” he says softly. “Trust is a rare commodity in Hollywood. And you should know, I never give out anything for free.”

* * *

**INT. GOLDEN DIM SUM CAFE - DAY [AUGUST]**

“I really can’t with this kid,” you say, stabbing a soup dumpling so hard it pops, beefy guts spilling across your plate.

“That bad?” Mark picks up a roast pork bun, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth, cheeks bulging out a little. “I thought you guys were supposed to be some kind of dream team. At least, that’s what Buzzfeed and all the celebrity news sites are saying.”

“It’s because we apparently look good together,” you groan. “I’m tired of being told how pretty we are, how good our chemistry is. The second the cameras turn off, he’s a naggy, entitled little bitch boy.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Do you want to talk it out?” 

“Ah.” You shrug, reaching for the teapot and topping off. “I’m not sure there’s much to be done about it. I guess I just have to put up with him until promos are over, then hopefully I can get it written in my contract that I never want to work with him again.”

“But maybe just talking about it will make you feel better,” he says. You look at him - you must sound really dire, if he’s offering emotional support. That’s not usually Mark’s strong suit, especially not over dim sum.

“I don’t know, it’s just...” you say. “You know, three years ago I was scrambling for guest roles on Law and Order and Arby’s commercials, but after Physician’s Guide and getting cast in a Seo film, I kinda thought I’d made it. But the way Rowan was talking the other day...”

“Your publicist, right? The scary one?” 

“That’s the one,” you say. “Okay, so you can’t tell anyone about this. Like, literally I’ll be fired if this gets out. Do you promise?”

“How long have we been friends?” Mark says. “You can trust me, I promise.” Reaching out his pinky, he links it with yours, pressing your thumbs together to seal it.

You pop a piece of shumai into your mouth, chewing it as you think of the best way to phrase your predicament. “Basically, the execs showed up and said they want Haechan and I to date for a publicity stunt, and instead of defending me, she said I was green and could use the PR boost.”

“Yo, what?” Mark pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “That’s messed up. Who was it?”

“Chris Bang?” you say. “Short, Australian, knows how to sell.”

Mark shakes his head. “I’m sorry, dude. That’s fucked up of them to just sell you out like that. It’s just a suggestion though, right? Not part of your contract?”

“You mean the contract that basically promises me, body and soul, to Byun Studios?” you laugh bitterly. “That’s one thing they don’t teach you about at acting school. Exclusive contracts. I can refuse, but it won’t look to producers in the future.”

“Ah,” he says, grimacing. “Fuck, that’s a tough spot, I’m sorry, bro. Have you talked to Haechan about it?”

“Not since he yelled at Chris Bang and stormed out,” you say. “That rehearsal with him, the one I was telling you about, I didn’t even have the chance before he started on his condescending dick agenda.”

“Did you at least get the stunt down?” Mark says kindly, holding out a piece of custard bun, placing a hand under your chin as you take it from his chopsticks. The sweet filling bursts over your tongue, wrapped in chewy, cloudlike dough.

“Yes,” you groan, brain physically hurting as you remember the six hours it took to get it down, and the full day of shooting dedicated to just that one scene. “No thanks to Pretty Boy Lee.”

“Is there anyone on the production team you can talk to?” he says. “I know the HR department at Byun is awful and going through SAG would be a bust, but maybe, like, a producer or something? Someone with enough clout to tell the network to fuck off.”

“Nobody besides the producers and my publicist thinks it’s a good idea,” you say. “Even Johnny knows the network’s full of shit, I thought he was going to throw hands. But it’s not up to him. Even directors have contracts. So I guess I’m going to just have to do it.” A metallic taste, somewhere between anxiety and anger, floods your mouth, and you take a large gulp of oolong tea.

“I still find it funny that you’re on first name terms with John Seo,” Mark says. “Considering he won, like, all the Oscars last year for Kick It. You’re kind of a big deal now, eh?”

“Shh,” you say, swatting his arm. “Says the guy who just dropped a collab with Beyoncé. I can’t believe you have time to shoot Physician’s Guide and release music. Do you ever sleep?”

“When I remember.”

“Have a drink, Mark,” you say, pushing the pot of green tea towards him, but he just shakes his head. “Don’t drop dead, okay? Not before Grammy noms are announced, at least. When is that, anyway?”

“November,” he says, squishing his face between his hands. “God, you know, it still hasn’t hit me, all this. I still feel like that awkward kid from Toronto with nothing but a guitar and big dreams.”

“That’s still half true,” you say.

“Which part?”

“You’re still awkward and from Toronto. You’re just hot and famous now.”

“I wish I could deny that,” Mark sighs. “God, I feel so bad for Milly sometimes, the paparazzi have been staking out our house lately.”

“Oh, yeah, how’s that going?” you say. “It’s been, what, two years now?”

“Our anniversary is coming up this month,” he says proudly. “You remember that party at the Sprouse’s? Where you-”

“Made out with Noah Centineo. Don’t remind me. Wait, so you met then? Why was she there?”

“She was roommates at SC with some Disney star,” he says. “Instant connection. One minute we start talking and...poof, we’re living together. I’m getting her a puppy for our anniversary.”

“Gah, happy couples,” you groan. “So she really doesn’t mind that you’re, like, the Mark Lee? I feel like dating a non-celeb would be so messy.”

Mark shrugs. “We don’t really talk about it. It just comes up occasionally like, ‘oh, honey, what’s for dinner? By the way, I’m going to the Saturns tomorrow, I’ll have my stylist include a dress for you.’”

“You’re the weirdest kind of normal,” you say, shaking your head.

“And you’re about to date Hollywood’s Full Sun,” he croons, making smooching noises. You flick a piece of pork bun at him, and he dodges, laughing and clapping like a seal at his own joke.

“He said no,” you say. “Literally, anyone else would’ve been fired for mouthing off to the studio like that, but no, because he’s Haechan Lee, because his daddy is Sir Soo-man Lee, the first Korean actor to be knighted by the queen...”

“And the man has the full EGOT, don’t forget.”

“But Haechan doesn’t, and everyone still kisses his ass like there’s no tomorrow,” you say. “We still have over a month of production left. I might end up in jail for murder charges.”

“I’d bail you out,” he says, stuffing a piece of egg tart in his mouth. “Look, I know this situation sucks. But there’s no real way to avoid it without stepping on some major toes. So go on a few dates, finish shooting Cherry Bomb. Be annoying and post about how much you love your boo until you’re able to break up.”

“That’s easier said than done,” you sigh. “You make months of faking emotional connection sound like just another day’s work.”

“We’re actors, that’s what we do best, right?” Mark says. “Go talk to him after your next shoot, try to spin it so that the whole thing looks mutually beneficial. If that doesn’t work, suck his dick or something.”

“Fuck you, that’s exactly what Rowan said.”

“I’m a man, I know how men work. Pass the spring rolls?”

* * *

**INSTAGRAM LIVE TRANSCRIPT [SEPTEMBER]**

Hi guys! Welcome to another set vid. Last time I think I did a mukbang thing? I don’t have any food today, sorry, but I have something better. With me today is none other than my leading man, my costar, my TikTok king...you may know him from a little show called A Physician’s Guide to Love and Medicine. Ladies, gentlemen and nonbinary folks, I give you Yangyang Liu. 

_WHAT’S UP?_

Okay, so, you’re visiting me for the first time on the Cherry Bomb set, what do you think?

_It’s big._

You don’t say.

_No, for real, I’m used to soundstages, but these are massive. Where’s your favorite place been so far?_

Okay, this is turning into an interview, I vibe. Um...I really like Ellie’s bedroom, which we finished up with a few weeks ago, but we’re going to be shooting in this...wait, Michelle, can I say this? [pause] Okay. Yeah, I can’t tell you where, but we’re going to be shooting in a very natural park soon. 

_Oh, shit. Wait, can I say that?_

You just said it for 350k people, Yangyangie. 

_You have 350k followers? Shit, I need to step it up._

No, I’m literally just a clown playing dress-up for a living, you’re good. Speaking of stepping it up though. Is now the right moment to mention our news?

_Should we? Or should we make them wait?_

Guys, what do you think? Oh, wait, Yangyang. @veranniiie keeps sending wedding ring emojis. What do you say?

_Sorry guys, my hands are a little occupied at the moment. I don’t think my fingers can fit any more._

Yeah, is that a new ring? 

_Courtesy of Cartier, yup._

Pretty. That’s not a product placement, by the way, he just likes to flex. Well, sorry @veranniiie, looks like you’ll stay single for another day. But, our news, omigod!

_Want to say it on three?_

One, two, A PHYSICIAN’S GUIDE TO LOVE AND MEDICINE IS GETTING A SEASON THREE!

You heard it here first, guys. Our dear Dr. Mars and Dr. Lei will be reunited in season three, along with the main cast and a bunch of new talent coming in.

_Ah, last season was such a cliffhanger. Do you think Dr. Kim is really going to leave his girlfriend for you?_

I don’t know, what do you guys think? Here, let’s walk and talk, comment your theories, guys.

_Wait, okay. So here on the left are the indoor soundstages, then you have a bunch of fields on the right, a couple rigs, then up ahead is the trailer park?_

Yup, that’s where we go when we have down time before wrap. My trailer’s right here, so cute, right?

_It looks like a trailer. Wow._

Shut up. Let’s go see if any of my co-stars are around to play. I think Chaeyoung and Lee Know are shooting a scene right now, but let’s see if Woojin is- [knocking sounds]

**Yeah?**

Woojinnie, hey, I’m here with Yangyang Liu, we’re shooting an InstaLive. Can we come in?

**Sorry, I’m kind of...in the middle of something. We’re on for after-wrap drinks this Friday though?**

_Can he say that on Live?_

Ha, I don’t know. [footsteps] Okay, Hansol has a Do-Not-Disturb sign on, I don’t think Kyungsoo is called today...let’s go back to my trailer.

_Yo, this is sick._

Right? Designer digs for the lead actress. Jelly?

_I might be putting in an HR request for next season, jeez. The couch is so comfy. If I lived here, I don’t think I’d ever leave._

And miss seeing the slushie machine we have at crafty?

_You have a who-what-now?_

Oh, shit. Well, I’d like to show you and the viewers what a mean slushie I make, but I just got a text that I’m needed back on set. What say, Yangyang? You want to come see the magic happen?

_Do I still get a slushie?_

Wow, what a diva.

_You know you love me. A sweet treat for your sweetest co-star!_

[Gagging noises] Okay, thanks for tuning in today guys! See you soon, stay well and make sure to drink lots of water!

* * *

**INT. VOGUE STUDIO - DAY [SEPTEMBER]**

The weekend brings a headache and a flurry of activity. On the morning of the Vogue interview, you’re dragged out of bed much too early, stuffed in a big black SUV, and hustled into a green room, all rather unceremoniously.

“Okay, so here’s the game plan,” Rowan says, planting herself behind you, firetruck-red nails stark against the black of the makeup chair. “You and Haechan are doing a pretty hands-on photoshoot today, so make sure to play up the tension.”

She waggles her eyebrows and you growl, causing the makeup artist working on your lips to frown. “No means no, Rowan. We’re not doing it.”

“Funny, that’s not what Felix Lee said.”

“You called his publicist?!”

“Shh, stay still,” she says, swatting your shoulder. “We’re still working out the details, but he’ll be onboard. For now...give those fangirls something to swoon about, okay?”

“Fine.” Standing up, you grab the sequined blazer from the back of the chair and pull it on. Paired with a sheer black romper and leather body harness, it’s actually kind of a look.

The studio is big and bright, with a million lights set up against a white wall. Haechan already stands in the center, while the photographer white-balances the camera. You hate how good he looks, how his honey-colored hair is pushed back just so, how the green velvet suit is cut just right, slim black pants pulling across his thighs in a way that’s a little distracting. 

“Ah, and she’s here.” Mitch, the photographer, beams. Pulling you forward, he places you next to Haechan. For the first shot, you’re standing back to back, looking in opposite directions. Per Vogue standards, you’re supposed to look sexily bored, while he smolders.

“Can I just say,” Mitch says, shutter clicking madly, nodding along with some K-Pop song playing in the background. “You two look absolutely scrumptious together. Seo’s really done a good job with casting.”

You allow a thin smile to slide over your face, turning to look at the camera. “Oh, oh, that right there,” Mitch gushes, jamming his eye to the viewfinder. “You’re gorgeous, darling. Keep it up.”

That’s how the shoot goes, lots of positive affirmations from Mitch, cycling through a series of innocuous poses, and then the ax falls. As a PA changes out lenses, Mitch walks up to you. “Okay, so for the next set, it’s a little more touchy, that cool with you?”

You look at Haechan, who shrugs. Remembering Rowan’s words, you nod. “For this first one, can you come up against his chest, yup, like that,” Mitch moves your limbs, posing you like dolls. “One hand on her waist, the other on the back of her head, yeah, look up, lift your chin like that, perfect.”

He retreats back to the firing line and starts clicking away, light umbrellas flashing rapidly.

“So, I hope you know how annoying my publicist has been lately,” you say, lips moving minutely. “Apparently she’s been having some nice chats with Felix to see how they can best smash us together.”

“I think everyone’s been having a nice little chat,” Haechan answers, eyes trained into the middle distance. “And I think we know they’re both full of shit. Well, I’d hope you do. Stuff like this can wreck careers.”

“What career?” you say. “I seem to recall you calling me a hopeless know-nothing rookie the other day.”

“Yeah, I was talking about mine,” he says. “You’d just love that, wouldn’t you? The little PR boost you’d get from being tied to me?”

“Tied is right,” you say. “I’d rather hang myself using my own hair. It’s not optimal for either of us, but you know they’re just going to keep breathing down our necks unless we do something about it.”

“Okay, Haechan, please take your right hand, yup, the camera side, place it on her cheek, tilt her chin up a bit. Look into each other’s eyes, like you’re romantic leads about to kiss.” Mitch giggles at his own joke.

You glare only slightly as Haechan catches up your chin, tipping it up until you’re staring deep into each other’s eyes. “So you really are more spineless than I thought,” he says, words hissing from between barely parted lips. “Funny, weren’t you all over that advocating the #MeToo movement a year or two ago?”

“Stalk my Twitter much?”

“Of course not,” he says. “I just guessed. You seem like the type.”

“And what’s that supposed to-”

“Shh, we’re supposed to be romantic.” Haechan shifts his grip a little, and you feel his hand fan across the curve of your throat, a subtle drag of fingers against flesh. “Tell me, do you always do what your publicist tells you?”

“I don’t pay her 70k a year to ruin my image now, do I?”

“I pay Felix to handle my phone calls and social media,” he says. “While I do stuff that actually matters.”

“It’s Hollywood, image is all that matters.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Haechan says, slitted eyebrow (part of the styling choice for his greaser character) arching. “There’s no way you actually believe that.”

“Do I believe that there’s more to Tinseltown than set politics and knowing which producers to buy a drink for? Of course,” you say. “But this is part of it. You’ve heard what they’re saying, we have good onscreen chemistry. If the suits can see that with their heads shoved so far up their asses, think about what the audience will see. If people think that even an iota of the chemistry they see onscreen is real, they’ll be that much more responsive.”

“Responsive?” Haechan shifts his grip again, his ringed thumb slipping across your lower lip, parting it a little. Against your will, a shiver goes up your spine as you stare into his dark, impenetrable eyes, feeling the cool metal pressing into your skin. A trace of that expression, that sense of looking into you, rather than at you, swims in his gaze. “In what way?”

“They’ll eat it up,” you say, each word brushing against his thumb like a kiss. “It’ll help promote the movie as well as make people invest in that parasocial relationship. They’ll want us to be together, want to know all the details, will smile at us being cute, cry when we break up. If that’s not response, I don’t know what is.”

“You make them sound like toys,” he says. “Like their emotions are just up for grabs, like we can do whatever we want.”

“Is that not true?”

Something sparks in his eyes, curls the edge of his lip a little. “Oh, yes, Haechan, just like that, a touch cocky, a little grin,” Mitch calls.

“So what exactly is it that you’re proposing?”

“You want me to tell you? Right here?”

“It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” he says, fixing you with a look.

“Point taken. Well, I think we should do what they say. Fake date.”

“Cave to the execs, is what you mean.”

“No,” you say, laying a hand on his chest in a gesture that looks sensual, but you feel him wince against your tight grip. Good, now you have his attention. “Showmances are nothing new. I mean, you’re friends with Jacob Elordi, right? From working on Midnight Love? He dated his Kissing Booth co-star, people ate it up, and that’s just Netflix shit. Look at Brangelina, Kismet, Kimye.”

“You want us to become Kimye?” Haechan quirks his eyebrow, the most he can do in your current pose.

“No, but you get my point,” you say. “Everyone’s already super excited for Cherry Bomb, think about how much they’d flip over a showmance. And if we put it in our own terms, instead of the producers and publicists forcing us to, I think it would be better for both of us.”

“Okay,” Haechan says slowly. “Let’s say I do go along with this...frankly very weird and very convoluted plan. How do you convince the world that we’re dating?”

“Well, we should probably follow each other on Instagram for a start-”

“I don’t have Instagram.”

“Okay Boomer,” you say, resisting the urge to hit him at his saccharine tone. “Well, I’d say then that we should go out in public, get seen a bit. At least a few times, so it looks like something more than just two costars out to lunch. Maybe hit a club or two, get seen kissing over brunch.”

“You think I’m a brunch guy?”

“Whatever. Dinner then. All I’m saying is, the internet is our best friend here. You heard what that exec said about Tumblr and Instagram - if we can get some moments going, some fangirls posting, we should have it in the bag,” you say. “And, of course, interviews. It’s like acting, you know, we have to convince them using just our body language that we’re secretly in love.”

“How academic,” he says. “Fine. Direct me. What’s my motive for this interview going to be?”

He snakes a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into his chest, nestling your head gently against the soft velvet of his suit. The woody smell of his cologne - Le Labo, you think - floods your nose, and motherfucker, it smells good. Were it anyone else, you’d love the sensation of his hands on you - one on your waist, the other at the back of your head, the smell of Gaiac 10 tickling your senses, the rise and fall of his chest under your hands, but it’s Haechan. The thought alone makes you want to push him away, but you don’t. If you’re going to be his fake girlfriend, you should probably get used to this.

“Tension,” you say, remembering Rowan’s words. “Every time you look at me, you want to rip my clothes off, every time we perform a scene together, you can’t keep your eyes off me. But you can’t. For the sake of the production, you’re holding off, but you feel this undying...passion, fluttering right under your ribs, like a trapped bird. But you just can’t give in, and it makes you mad.”

He’s silent, and it’s then that you realize the music is off, the studio lights have stopped flashing. “You guys good?” Mitch says. “I think we’re good on shots, but I didn’t want to interrupt your...moment.” There’s a suggestive edge to his tone that sets off alarm bells in your head. It’s happening, already. All it took was a few light touches from two pretty people - feelings are so easy to manipulate. You don’t know if the hot feeling blooming in your stomach is elation or disgust.

You walk side-by-side back to the green rooms, but before you’re able to disappear into yours, Haechan grabs your wrist. The metal of his rings whisks across your skin, astringent, cold. “So let’s say I do it. Let’s say I spend the time, make sure they pick up on this...” he raises an eyebrow. “Tension. The suits get their show, you get your PR. What’s in it for me?”

You tilt your head to the side. “What do you want?”

“Hm. I don’t know,” he says.

“Of course you know,” you scoff. “You’re a twentysomething guy from LA. Your wishes can’t be that complex.”

He just stares at you coldly.

“Fine. How about...a favor? Since you seem to think you’re scratching my back here, let me scratch yours. One favor, within reason, to be granted by yours truly,” you say. You can feel how close he is to caving, so you push, offering him something he can’t refuse.

“You’re giving me carte blanche?” Haechan says.

“If you’re snapping at studio execs, I don’t want to know what you’d do to me,” you say, shrugging. “One thing. Besides my lovely company and all the fanfiction coming your way, you get one thing from me."

He considers, then opens his mouth, heart-shaped lips forming a word and for a horrible moment, you think he’s going to say no. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” he says, reaching out a hand. You shake it, wondering just how bad of an idea this might be. “This favor, this thing I ask of you, it doesn’t have an expiration date, does it?”

“No,” you say, already beginning to regret your offer, just a bit. “For as long as I live and breathe in Hollywood, you will be able to ask me for one favor. Within reason.”

“Of course,” Haechan purrs. “I’m a gentleman, no need to worry.”

He draws his hand back, thumb skimming over your knuckles in a gesture that’s almost tender, but you know better. “Now, let’s go get changed and give Vogue a little show, yeah?”

* * *

**CHERRY BOMB COSTARS ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS [VOGUE, VIA YOUTUBE]**

**Hi guys! I’m Haechan Lee, and you’re watching Vogue. Today, my co-star and I are going to be answering some of Vogue’s questions as well as asking some of our own, which we have in this bucket. Ladies first?**

Thanks, Haechan. Okay, question one. What is your earliest memory?

**Oh, wow, getting right in. Um...playing on the beach in Calabasas. I think I was two.**

Calabasas, that sounds so beautiful. My earliest memory is probably school? Kindergarten, I remember having a meltdown over the letter G in spelling class.

**Aw, now I’m imagining you with pigtails and missing teeth. Cute.**

Please don’t.

**[Laughs] Next question. What was your childhood dream job?**

I think I always knew I wanted to be an actor - getting to bring to life such amazing stories, getting paid to play dress-up, essentially, it all sounded so exciting.

**I pretty much grew up on film sets, you know, visiting my dad on location, but I never thought I’d end up working on one. I wanted to be a doctor or lawyer, you know, classic Korean kid dreams. But then I was asked to play the younger version of my dad in this Nakamoto film, and the rest is history.**

That was the one set in 1930s Korea, right? Reparations?

**That’s the one. Wait, you watched it? I’m so embarrassed, I was so little.**

You were so cute then! That must’ve been intense though, considering the content matter.

**It was, but they didn’t really tell me about it. They just put me in hanbok and said ‘cry when the man in the green uniform yells.’ And they used a body double in a lot of the more intense scenes. I actually wasn’t allowed to see the movie until years later.**

Define yourself in three words.

**Driven. Handsome. Passionate.**

I’ll agree with two out of three of those.

**Which two?**

That’s for me to know, and you to never find out. [laughs] I would say...Kind, Curious, Dreamer. At least, I aspire to be.

**I’d also agree with two out of three.**

Haechan!

**Kidding, kidding. Okay. What's your guilty pleasure?**

K-Pop. It’s not guilty, but it’s not something everyone would know about.

**_Jinjja?_ Fun fact, I can sing, and I speak Korean, if you want me to...**

Cast karaoke night?

**Okay, I think I’m taking that back. For me...video games. I play a lot of Overwatch.**

What, you do? Nerd.

**Hey!**

Joking. What’s the last text you sent?

**‘Eomma, I love you.’**

No way. That’s too convenient.

**I’m serious, I can show you the receipts.**

Haechan Lee, everyone. [claps] I love that, that you’re so close to your mom. Guys, this is what a gentleman looks like.

**Mm. What about you?**

‘LOL nope’ with a crying laughing emoji, to Mark Lee.

**You’re friends with Mark Lee?**

Yeah, we go way back. I was really good friends with his college roommate from NYU, way before we were cast in Physician’s Guide, so I’d hung out with him a few times, knew that he acted. But we weren’t super close until we got to LA and started shooting our first major show together. Now, he’s one of my absolute favorite people.

**Oh, I drew a blank question. Does that mean I can ask whatever I want? [pause] Oh I’m excited.**

And I’m scared.

**What? I’m a perfect gentleman, you said it yourself.**

Haechan...you know what, never mind, ask what you want, you won’t be able to tell if I’m lying.

**You don’t think I’ll be able to tell? Come on, I’ve already spent the last few months with you. Shouldn’t I know your mind just a little by now?**

Try me.

**Okay. Let me think. What was your first impression of me? I’ll answer too.**

Wait, clarifier, when did we first meet? That first week was such a blur.

**Chemistry reads with Nina...you don’t remember? Ouch. Okay, I take back everything nice I said.**

You said nice things today? [laughs] I’m kidding. The first time we met? You’d just finished shooting Midnight Love right? For Netflix?

**I’m so hurt you don’t remember.**

No, no, I’m thinking. I’m thinking.

[pause, the sound of a body shifting in a chair]

If I’m going to be completely honest? Your hair. 

**My hair? Jeez, I was going to say the way you commit so deeply to your character, how you’re able to get into the zone seconds before a take...but that works too.**

Hey, I wasn’t finished! I remember seeing the mullet, watching you walk across the room, shake my hand with this confidence, and then doing the read and thinking, yeah, that’s my leading man. You looked so much like Jack, and then performing that scene cemented it. I think everyone in the room could tell.

**Could tell what?**

That we’d be making one hell of a movie.

* * *

**INT. BYUN STUDIOS - DAY [SEPTEMBER]**

The cherry-red Mustang grinds to a halt. He cuts the ignition, then practically hurls himself out of the driver’s side door, slamming it so hard the entire car shakes.

“What the hell?” You exit the car more sedately, watching in amazement as he lights up a cigarette, smoldering it against the shiny chrome grill. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

“Your house is just up the road,” he grinds out, taking a long drag. “Go home.”

“Ah, so that’s how you’re going to play it,” you say, laughing humorlessly.

“This was a mistake, I should never have agreed.”

“Your mistake, or mine?” you say, anger pulsing through you. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true, that it was never out of the goodness of your heart.”

“You never should have trusted me in the first place,” he says, stubbing out the cigarette and grinding it under his boot. Pulling his leather jacket around him, he stalks further into the field, waist-high wheat stalks brushing against his waist.

“Where are you-”

“Don’t,” he says, spinning suddenly, and you’re surprised to see the anguish twisting his face. Thunder cracks overhead. “Don’t follow me, you’ll end up in my arms.”

The skies open up, rain hissing down in torrents, soaking you as you stare at each other, arms crossed, breathing heavily. You walk forward slowly. “But what if,” you say, placing your hand on his jacket. “That’s exactly where I want to be?”

He looks down at your hand on his shoulder, to the trembling of your bottom lip, to the rain beginning to soak through your white blouse. He bends helplessly towards you, lips parted-

“And cut!” Johnny shouts. The stage bell rings, and the rain machines turn off with a hiss. A PA runs forward, holding two towels. “Sorry, guys, the rain cue was off, we’ll have to go again.”

You shiver, pulling the towel around you as you’re rushed into hair and makeup. A small army of stylists blowdries your hair and runs touch-ups, then you’re stripped and stuffed into a dry costume identical to the soaked version clinging to you. “Let’s go again guys,” Johnny calls. “Looking great.”

You reset to your mark in the car, cycling through the scene again. You’re a little glad for the rain malfunction, as you’ve been antsy all day. After the interview you didn’t have the chance to talk to Haechan, nor today, as you started shooting first thing, rolling almost continuously, and you’ve been a little distracted, thinking about the ground rules of your “relationship” and how you’re going to frame it.

“Don’t. Don’t follow me, or you’ll end up in my arms.”

You walk forward again, this time looking deep into his eyes. Your hand slides up his chest, slower this time, and you can feel the energy is calmer, more centered. “But what if that’s exactly where I want to be?”

Haechan looks at you, then grabs your wrist, pulling you towards him (a little more aggressive than you’d rehearsed, but you go with it), just as the rain machines turn on. Your lips connect, warm despite the sheets of silvery water cascading down around you, and you thread your hands into his wet hair. His lips move against yours, cherries and mint toothpaste flooding across your tongue as you kiss, and for one shining moment, you’re able to shut off the noise in your head, the mechanized hum of the rain machine, the swish of rain. It’s just you and him, Jack and Ellie, a euphoric feeling of synergy as you’re on the exact same page, for once. Just as you move your hands to his shoulders, allowing your eyes to flutter closed, you see something out of the corner of your eye. In a flash, you realize what’s happening.

"Fuck!” With a jolt, you reach out a hand, grabbing onto the wet poncho of the steadicam operator, stopping his fall.

“Cut!” The stage bell rings again. “Is everyone okay?”

“Are you?” you say, releasing the unfortunate cam op. He nods, scuffing his shoes in the wet grass.

“That’s a wrap for today, guys,” Renjun calls. “We have enough in the can for today, but it’s getting too slick. Good work, go home and get warm.”

“Of all the days not to wear studs,” the op says, with wry laugh. Checking the display of the camera, he breathes out a sigh of relief. “Sorry, you seemed really dialed in, I completely corpsed that take for you.”

You wave him off. “I’m pretty sure this is the last dry outfit, so you probably saved me from being out here much longer. I’m just glad you’re okay...”

“Kun,” he says, inclining his head. “Kun Qian.”

“Kun. All right. Well, a pleasure to save your life, Kun,” you say, giving him a salute. “I have to get to makeup, but try not to die out here, yeah?"

He nods, and spins the arm of the camera horizontally, carrying it off to the equipment truck. You make your way over to the wardrobe trailer. “Oh, my,” Penny, the head wardrobe designer, clucks. “You’re all wet, dearie.”

Walking you behind a folding screen, she strips you out of your costume and gives you a fluffy white robe to wear before ushering you into the makeup chair. You close your eyes as she attacks your rain-proof makeup with Micellar water and Vaseline.

“How did shooting go today?” she asks.

“It went well, besides all the rain stuff,” you say. “I mean, I’m sure it’ll look cooler on film, but right now, all I want is bed, noodles, and a big pot of green tea.”

“It always looks cooler on film,” she agrees. Wiping your face with a warm towel from the steamer, she sets to work with a hair dryer, softening the adhesive from your hairpiece (normally it’s your natural hair, but for rain scenes, they prefer to have treated wigs that that don’t soak as easily), before pulling the thing off. “If you want good noodles, there’s a place downtown my hubbie and I really like. It’s called Treasure, we swear by it.”

“Treasure,” you repeat, pulling out your phone and tabbing Yelp. It’s only a short walk from the backlot. “Okay, I’ll have to check it out.”

“Lord knows you deserve it,” she says, placing the sodden wig on a plastic mannequin. “You kids, working so hard out there. I don’t even remember what I was doing at your age.”

“I’m not entirely sure either,” you say, the laugh coming from your throat sounding more like a sigh than you intend.

Penny clucks again, as she towels off your hair. “What’s happening, sweetie? Is it Haechan Lee?”

You look at her in surprise. Dead on, Penny. “Why do you ask that?”

“I hear he can be a bit difficult to work with,” she says. “If that’s not too bold to say. I used to work on more Netflix sets, and some of the things I hear...”

You raise an eyebrow. “Penny, now I’m curious.”

“Oh, naughty,” she wags a pudgy finger at you. “I shouldn’t.”

“Penny, he’s my costar, if anyone should know, it’s me.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” she says. “I’ll tell you...if you tell me a crazy set story from A Physician’s Guide to Love and Medicine.”

“Deal.”

“Okay, this is just a rumor,” she says. “But apparently he doesn’t have the best relationship with his dad? You know how he skipped the Oscars last year? He said it’s because he’s been so often, but a lot of us think it’s a screw you to the old man. Also, after the whole dating scandal with that pop star and the Ibiza club incident, he’s known as a bit of a loose cannon these days. So I can see why you’d be...a little at odds.”

“That’s interesting,” you say, remember the look on his face at the studio meeting. The way he’d snapped at the executive producers without a second thought. “Why did he take the role then? Sounds like he’d be better off chilling in the Hills or Malibu.”

“I mean, I’m sure you know how it is, as an actor,” Penny says. “Being bitten by the bug.”

“I highly doubt Haechan makes art for art’s sake,” you snort.

“Have you ever asked him?”

The question stops you short. Have you actually sat down and just talked with him? More than just running lines or working out how to block a scene? “Actually, no. But it’s not exactly my first instinct with him to start talking craft.”

Penny shrugs. “I’m no expert, but maybe you should try? I think people are often deeper than we give them credit for.”

You make a face. “Ah, don’t do that, you’ll get wrinkles,” she says. “I guess my point is, if he’s being difficult, it may not really be a you thing.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that,” you say. “He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to work with me. To be honest, I’ll be kind of glad when I’m done with this whole thing, and back shooting Physician’s Guide. But, anyway. Speaking of that, what do you want to know?”

“Anything, tell me something juicy,” she says, smiling fondly. “I live so vicariously through you guys, it’s a little pathetic at this point.”

“Nonsense,” you say. “Penny, you are a lifesaver and a half, trust me. Um...crazy set stories. Let’s see. I’m torn between the time Yangyang ran a prank cam and made Chenle cry on set, or when Jaemin, Jeno, Ryujin and I took a trip to Europe, got lost on the Eurail and wound up in Paris at 2 AM, dead drunk.”

Penny laughs, clapping her hands together. “Jeno Lee and Jaemin Na, drunk in Paris? That’s something I’d like to see. Jeno always seems so serious.”

“He is, which is the funny part,” you say. “He was the one who realized we missed our stop and started freaking out. Jaemin and Ryujin were too busy playing slaps to notice. We wound up just spending the night at this dinky hostel before taking the train back in the morning.”

“Wow, there are times when I really envy you stars,” Penny says. “And times that I don’t.”

“Which are you feeling now?”

“Why would I tell you that?” she says, pinching your cheek. “You’re still a kid, you should be having crazy adventures. Just not ones that will land you in the tabloids, okay?”

You grimace, remembering the rash deal you’d made not 24 hours ago. “Can’t promise that, Penny.”

“Ah, you,” she says, squeezing your shoulders. Reaching for your favorite perfume - a little crystal bottle that she keeps on the vanity - she spritzes your wrists and neck. The familiar, comforting scent wreathes around you, slowing down your heartbeat, if only incrementally. “Well, my work here is done, you look fresh and stunning, as usual.”

“And you’re my number one fan, as always,” you say, smiling. Sliding your feet into your favorite Crocs (purple, with a number of charms you’d gotten as birthday gifts from the Physician’s Guide cast) you exit the makeup trailer.

The cast is set up in a row of white trailers, yours being the closest to makeup, but you bypass it, walking past your costar’s doors and rapping on the one at the very end. Music blasts from a speaker inside, in a language that sounds like Korean. “Haechan?”

You have to knock several more times before the door finally swings open. Haechan stands in the doorway, a blonde girl who you vaguely recognize as one of the extras from a scene shot earlier in the day hanging off his arm. You drag your gaze over her coolly and she blushes.

“Hey, what’s up?” Haechan says, inclining his chin at you.

“I was, um, wondering, if you had any plans after wrap?” you say, studiously averting your eyes from the lipstick marks on his neck.

He shrugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you’re asking,” he says. Nevertheless, he gives the blonde girl’s ass a pat and winks. “See you later, Allie?”

“For sure,” she giggles, kissing him on the cheek, before scurrying down the steps and away through the trailer forest.

“Classy,” you say, wrinkling your nose.

“Hey, I don’t judge who you bring home,” he says. “Or, wait, do you bring anyone home?

“Yes, I do,” you say, giving him a look. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Okay, don’t bite my head off,” he laughs, pushing his round glasses further up his nose. Even barefaced in a plain black hoodie, he manages to still look godly, and you hate him for it. “But what’s up? I hope you interrupted me for a good reason.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I interrupted the world’s best blowjob,” you say acidly. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to grab dinner or something and discuss...terms.”

“You make it sound like we’re in the mafia,” he sighs. “Can’t a guy’s fake relationship be simple? If it’s about getting head, fine, I won’t do it so publicly. She wasn’t great anyway, used too much teeth.”

“I-” your cheeks flame at his brazenness. “Look, you know how much I hate this, but if we’re going to convince the world we’re a couple, we should probably figure out the ground rules.”

Haechan tilts his head to the side. “So you’re really serious about this. You really want to commit to - how many months - of fake dating?”

“Just until the premiere.”

“The premiere-” he throws his hands up. “Okay, yeah, I’ll come with you. Just let me grab my bag, okay?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re seated in a private room at Treasure. You hate the fact that the hostess took one look at Haechan and practically fell on the floor to give him a suite, free of charge, but you’re not complaining as they bring out steaming bowls of bulgogi, pork belly, cream shrimp, and about a million other things.

“So I see you’ve decided to woo me with food from the motherland,” Haechan says, grabbing a piece of meat with his chopsticks. “Girl after my own heart.”

“I’m not after your anything,” you say, jamming a large piece of kimchi into your mouth. “My stylist recommended this place, I didn’t know it was Korean.”

“You didn’t know-” he laughs mockingly, nose crinkling. “Not from the signs or anything? The carp tank?”

You give him a look. “Mm,” he says, shaking his head as he stabs a bit of scallion pancake. “Well, the food’s not as good it was in Seoul or Incheon, but I’ll give it a pass.”

“I’m glad this four-star restaurant passes the Lee Test,” you say, dipping a bit of eel in a sauce ramekin. “So. Terms.”

“Ah, yes, you didn’t just bring me here to wine and dine me,” he says. “Shame. You starlets with your ulterior motives.”

“Oh, like you don’t have an agenda.”

“Do I?” he leans across the table, chin falling onto steepled fingers. “What’s my agenda, then?”

Your eyes flick away from his curious gaze. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Reaching in your bag, you grab a spiral and a ballpoint pen.

“In a noteb-” Haechan bursts out laughing. “What is this, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before?”

“Hey, that was a good movie, don’t do my girl Lana dirty,” you say. “But yes. I want to write this out, so we’re both on the same page, then we can burn it or something, so there’s no evidence.”

“Okay, Eliza Hamilton,” he says. “So. What are the terms? You've already said you want this to go on until-” he counts on his fingers. “The premiere? That’s such a long time.”

“And it’ll give the movie negative PR if we ‘break up’ before then,” you counter, writing #1: DATE UNTIL PREMIERE on the first line. “Haechan, that’s less than six months away, which is barely long enough to be a plausible relationship, anyway. Stop being a baby.”

“Hey, it’s about quality, not quantity,” he says. “I had a weeklong thing with this gorgeous chick in Cancun-”

“Okay, no, I don’t want to know,” you say. “And that’s something I wanted to address too. Seeing other people.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Haechan holds up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. We’re not dating for real, right? Therefore we both have equal rights to see other people.” 

“Not at the risk of having the paps catching people leaving your apartment, or, you know, mansion if I’m a certain somebody,” you say. “I may not be a high risk, but you’re Haechan Lee. They’ll find you no matter what. Sorry, but your hand will have to do. Or, you know, a dildo if you’re into that. Maybe a vibrator if you’re feeling really frisky.”

He looks down at his hands, mouth twisting like he’s eaten a particularly sour lemon. “You’re forcing me to be an actual, literal incel. Why did I agree to do this again?”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” you say. “You can thank our pals at Byun Studios for that. But also, carte blanche, remember?” 

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot,” he says. “Have to say, I’m a little excited.”

“Why, what on earth could you want from a rookie cable actor? I thought you traded in nepotism and nudity? And I wouldn’t say either of those count as reasonable requests.”

Haechan rolls his eyes. “There’s more to life than work and sex.”

“Bullshit,” you say. “What on earth do you have to think about besides where your next Oscar nom is coming from? Or your next orgasm?”

“Well, now you just make me sound like a caveman,” he says. “I do think about other things, not that you’d know or care. Unless I’m mistaken and you suddenly want to know all my...secrets.”

He says the last word with a slight slant, winking, and you can’t help but note that the slit in his eyebrow has been filled in, pink glitter replacing the shaved spot. No doubt his girl toy’s idea of a makeover. 

“Ah, no, you’re right,” you say, writing #2: NO HOOKERS in bold. “I don’t care.”

“I resent that, I never pay for sex,” he says. “In fact, girls offer to pay me.”

“Oh really?” 

“Okay, to be fair, it was Coachella and she was wasted to all hell, but whatever. I don’t pay, ever.”

“Yeah, probably wouldn’t be worth much anyway,” you say, nudging your chin at his feet. “What are those, size six or seven?”

“I-” he looks down, pulling at the tongue to check.

“Made you look,” you say. “God, how long have you had a stylist? Do you not even know your own shoe size?”

“What do you think?” he says. “You know who my dad is. You think I got to choose how I dressed as a kid?”

You shrug. “You’re rich. You always have a choice.”

“Not in the Lee household, you don’t,” he says, grabbing a piece of bulgogi and shoving it into his mouth with more force than you think necessary. “Fine. Incel agenda. Anything else?”

You nod. “Dates. The whole point of this thing is to be seen, right? So we should establish a routine. Like, once a week or something. Go out to a high-profile area, where there are bound to be paparazzi. Fans, even. We just need to be seen.”

“You’re the weirdest celebrity I’ve ever met,” Haechan says. “Most people spend all their time running away from the paps. And you want to seek them out?”

“So you admit, I am a celebrity,” you say.

“Baby celebrity. C-List at best.”

“Excuse me, who won a SAG last year?”

“For Best Ensemble Drama,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re talking to one of the youngest ever Young Artist Award winners. And I don’t go to the Oscars anymore, too boring.”

“That and you’ve never gotten a nom,” you shoot back. “I’m sorry not all of us were born with a silver spoon up our ass.”

“You think I get roles because of my dad?” Haechan places his chopsticks down with a clink. “Hang on-”

“No, no, you’re a wonderful artist in your own right,” you say, writing #3: WEEKLY DATES in bold. “My mistake.”

“No, seriously,” Haechan says. “My dad made me turn down Euphoria because he didn’t think it would reflect well on the family legacy or whatever.”

“Who would you have played?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says darkly. “I don’t even know why I’m justifying myself to you. You wouldn’t know HBO if it bit you in the ass.”

“And you wouldn’t know a day’s hard work if it had your cock down its throat.”

“Okay,” Haechan says, grabbing the spiral and wresting the pen from your hand. #4: NO TALKING ABOUT PERSONAL STUFF. “If this is going to work, you can’t be roasting me about my dad 24/7.”

“Then you can’t keep making fun of me for being a rookie cable actor,” you say.

“Well, if the shoe fits...”

“Oh, hey, you know whose Daddy’s movie got dodged for an Oscar last y-”

“Fine. I’ll stop calling you a rookie cable actor,” Haechan says, snatching the pen and writing #5: NO TELLING ANYBODY ABOUT THIS, EVER, in bold, underlining it twice for good measure. “It would be massively embarrassing for everyone involved, agreed?”

“Agreed,” you say. Taking back the pen and paper, you write #6: NO BREAKING CHARACTER. “Number one rule of acting school. As long as there’s a camera around or a civilian in the room, we’re happy, in love, having a grand old time together, capiche?”

Haechan pulls a face. “Thanks, Don Corleone, I think I’d worked that out for myself.”

Your eyes narrow. “Call me what you like, but I’m dead serious about this. One slip-up and the paps will be all over our asses. I want this to work out, and I will be very mad if it doesn’t. And you should be too. You know, with your honor and my carte blanche on the line.”

He looks at you, at the seriousness etched into your pretty face, no doubt so different from the soft Ellie expression he’s used to. “Okay. Fine. I swear on...my dad’s Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony that I will not break my word.”

“Did you really-” you throw a piece of pickled radish at him, which he catches easily. Grabbing the notebook, you sign your name at the bottom. Haechan signs as well, letters loopy and ostentatious, even adding a heart at the bottom, like you’re a fan asking for his autograph.

“Oh, and also,” Haechan says, drawing an asterisk under the signatures. #7: NO CATCHING FEELINGS.

“As if,” you say, snorting. “Is that even necessary?”

“Come on, have you not seen every romantic comedy ever?” Haechan says. “Whenever the main characters make a stupid deal like this, somebody always catches feelings.”

“Oh yeah? And what rom coms have you watched that make you such an expert?”

“I don’t need to have watched many to know, it’s basic common knowledge,” he says.

“You know, I don’t think I believe you,” you say, a mocking smile twisting your lips as you take a long sip of green tea. “You’re full of shit, no way are you a rom com expert unless you’ve watched a bunch. Tell me the most embarrassing teen movie you’ve watched and I might believe in your expertise. And it can’t be your own. Otherwise I’ll just have to accept that you’re a know-nothing braggart...”

“Fine,” he huffs. “Therkessingborth.”

“Huh?”

“The Kissing Booth, okay?” he says. “I got really drunk one night, and I live-texted Jacob the whole time just to fuck with him. But it’s actually not a bad movie. Plus, Joey King is hot.”

He stares at you, aggrieved, as you burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I figured you were going to say something normal like Twilight, something everybody has seen that you could bullshit,” you say. “I guess now I’m forced to believe you’ve seen it.”

“Fuck you, Twilight’s a good movie.”

“Ah, ah, is that any way to talk to your new girlfriend?” you say, ripping the paper from the notebook. “Okay, now that it’s settled and I know you’re a Grade A sap, eat it.”

His eyes widen like dinner plates. “What?”

“Important contracts like this, you have to ball it up and eat it, so your body knows its importance. Everybody knows that. At least, everybody outside of Beverly Hills knows that.”

He looks at your hand, the ball of paper crunched in it, and then sees the shit-eating grin on your face. “You’re so full of it.”

“And you’re a little sheltered-” you stop yourself. “Okay, I’m just messing with you, but I’m torching this tonight. You’ve got it all memorized, right?”

“Please, my mind is a steel trap,” he brags. “They don’t call me One-Take Wonder for nothing.”

“Who calls you that?”

“Your mo-” he cuts off as the waiter comes back over, face morphing scarily fast into a sweet, contented expression, completely apropos for date night.

“Did you two enjoy the meal?” the waiter says.

“Yes, very much,” he says. “Didn’t we, angel?”

You kick him under the table. “Sure did, sweetcheeks.”

Haechan hands the waiter his Visa Black card, and waits until she’s out of earshot before turning to you, murder in his eyes. “Sweetcheeks?”

“Angel?!”

“I thought it was endearing,” he says. “Chicks usually eat that up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not chicks,” you say. “Call me my name or nothing, okay? I don’t like pet names.”

“As you wish, Nothing.”

“Is it too soon to break up with you?”

* * *

**FAKE DATING CONTRACT**

RULE #1: DATE UNTIL PREMIERE

RULE #2: WEEKLY DATES

RULE #3: NO HOOKERS

RULE #4: NO TALKING ABOUT PERSONAL STUFF

RULE #5: NO TELLING ANYONE ABOUT THIS, EVER

RULE #6: NO BREAKING CHARACTER

RULE #7: NO CATCHING FEELINGS

* * *

**INT. YOUR APARTMENT - DAY [SEPTEMBER]**

“So how was it?” Mark’s voice streams from your Bluetooth speaker. You stretch, walking your hands back into Downward Dog. Today’s one of your rare days off, so you’re investing in some at-home self-care - yoga, tea, Korean face masks, the whole nine yards.

“You mean seducing Satan?”

“No, I meant your James Corden interview.” You can practically hear the eye roll through the phone. “Did he say yes?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Our first date is this weekend, please kill me.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“Bold of you to assume anyone takes me anywhere,” you say. Mark says nothing, knowing you too well. “And the answer is, I don’t know. He said he’d pick a place, and send the car to pick me up. The car, can you believe that?”

“I’m not sure how that’s surprising, Haechan Lee is loaded,” he says. “Even if he’s moved out and Daddy’s cut his pocket money, the salaries from Midnight Love and Often alone are insane.”

“How do you know this?” you say, stretching your arm.

“Forbes.”

“They published his net worth? That seems a little intrusive.”

“More intrusive than publishing pictures of him dry-humping that chick in Ibiza?” he says, chuckling. “I never wanted to know that he has a tramp stamp of a Korean dragon, and yet here we are.”

“That was photoshopped,” you say, almost without thinking.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve, um,” you shake your head. “Okay, I haven’t seen him shirtless, but I don’t think that’s super in line with his personality.”

“If you say so,” Mark says. “I’ve never met him, but he sounds like a huge man whore. After that singer - Denise, right? - dumped him, he kind of went on a bender, right?”

“I don’t know about bender,” you say. “But, yeah, I did catch him getting head from an extra before our dinner date.” Your fingers twitch, digging into the plush foam yoga mat.

Mark whistles, the shrill sound creating some static. “Can’t say I’m surprised. I know you’re not really dating, but I’d be careful of that.”

“I put it in the contract,” you say. “And he signed it and swore on his dad’s EGOT, so if he gets caught with someone and ruins the whole thing I’ll be so fucking mad. A cheating scandal looks much worse than a mutual breakup.”

“It won’t happen. Haechan might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid,” Mark says. “I’m sure growing up in the spotlight has taught him a thing or two about publicity. I can’t imagine being a kid and having that kind of scrutiny.”

“Yeah, well, you choose how you react to stuff like that,” you say, folding your legs into the Lotus position. “And he’s decided to be an annoying prick.”

You can practically hear Mark shrugging through the phone. “Well, I’m glad you’ve kind of got it sorted.”

“Don’t say that until after the first date, I’ll keep you updated,” you say. “Oh, speaking of dates coming up...are you going to Hollywood Halloween this year?”

“Nah, I’m going home with Milly,” he says. “We’re going to see her family. Carve some pumpkins with her little cousins.”

“How wholesome,” you say. “And here I was thinking we’d rent out a floor of a club, drink until we can’t see straight, run through Palm Springs half naked at 2 AM.”

“Ah,” Mark sounds wistful. “I’d love to, but...”

“But you’re whipped, is what I’m hearing,” you tease. “Did you pick out the puppy?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the p. “Got her a little pug puppy. She named it Sherman.”

“Sherman?”

“After some author, I don’t know,” Mark says, the smile evident in his voice. Your heart twinges just a bit - what must it be like to be that close to someone, that you buy them a squishy dog and think it’s cute when they name it something stupid?

You shake your head. Committer? I don’t even know her. Not since coming to Tinseltown, and lately, with your schedules and all, even casual hookups haven’t exactly been in the mix.

“I’m tired, Lee,” you say, stretching out on your back, limbs spread like a starfish. “I’m tired, overworked, fake-dating of the most annoying people in Hollywood, and I just want some hot, steamy, mind-blowing sex to get my mind off of it. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” Mark says. “Honestly though, have you ever thought about seriously dating someone? Like I know you can’t right now, but after you’re done with Haechan?”

“Why have one when you can have them all?” you say flippantly, crossing your eyes, though he can’t see.

“I don’t know? Emotional support? Genuine human connection? Stability?” Mark’s voice is creaky, nervous, like he’s afraid of pissing you off. The fact that he sounds like this - like he really believes what he’s saying, sends annoyance marching up your spine.

“Mark, are you calling me unstable?”

“No, of course not,” he says. “I’m just saying, your relationships aren’t always, well...relationships?”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I was just asking,” Mark says, defensiveness tinging his voice. 

“I guarantee if you were talking to Jeno or Jaemin you’d be high fiving them if they scored,” you say acidly.

“What-no, this isn’t a sexist thing,” he says. “You’re one of my best friends, you know that. I really do care about what happens to you, and I just think...this is going to take a toll on your mental health and you should have someone stable around to talk to you and, like, yeah, give you hot steamy whatever when you’re single again.”

“But I’ve got you,” you say. “When you’re not emotionally constipated, you actually give pretty decent advice. And I also have Yangyang, Ryunjin, Jaemin, Jeno…”

“But do anything of them really care? Like really really, stay up until 3 AM on the phone to make sure you’re okay, care?” Mark says. “I know you have me, but I can only do so much. I can’t be there all the time, and I sure as hell can’t give you sex, so what if you found someone like me, just hot and available, instead of pushing down your real feelings with work and a rotating door of men who don’t care about you in a real way?”

He pauses, breathing a little hard after the sudden impassioned monologue. The small, rational part of your brain nods, whispering that he’s making sense, maybe you should just pick the nice guy this time. But the other part of you, the rash, snarky part that’s handing out carte blanches and writing out contracts flashing hot with anger. 

He doesn’t understand the pressure you’re under, let alone what it’s like being a young, single girl in Hollywood with all this shit riding on your back, after all, how could he? He’s the Mark Lee, Hollywood’s golden boy, with a silver tongue and magic fingers and a stupid cottage with a garden and a pretty girlfriend and an ugly puppy, everything you can’t have because you’re just a rookie cable actor who stumbled onto an Oscar-winner’s set.

“Fuck you, Mark,” you say. “If I want to go out and screw every hot guy in Los Angeles, I can. And I will. You might be happy playing house with your little doll and your cute dog, but open your eyes. Nothing fucking lasts here. You can make or break your career in seconds. So you can pretend all you like, but nothing’s in our control, and if you think otherwise, you’re deluding yourself. Excuse me if I’m trying to enjoy my life and make the most out of a terrible situation, instead of sitting back and watering my lawn and pretending that I’m not a goddamn actor who lives a twelve minute drive from the Hollywood sign.”

Mark’s end is silent. Then, you hear a voice. “Mark?” Soft, accented. Milly. “Everything all right? I thought I heard yelling.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all good,” he says. “She was just rehearsing for a scene, she actually has to get to set soon.”

“Oh-okay,” Milly says. “Hi, break a leg, that’s what you say, righ-”

“Yeah, break a leg, have fun doing whatever you’re doing,” Mark says shortly. “Don’t want to keep you.”

“Mark-”

The line goes dead. 

* * *

**MARKY MARKY [SNS]**

**ME** : mark, i’m sorry, that was way harsh.

 **ME:** i’ve been so stressed lately, ik that’s not an excuse but…i need a friend at a time like this. Please, call me if you get this so we can talk.

_Read at 2:23 PM_

* * *

**EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAY [SEPTEMBER]**

“You know, when I said date, I envisioned something cute, like coffee, or watching the sunset,” you say, accepting the mini golf club and bubblegum pink ball the attendant hands you.

“Can I remind you that you asked me out?” Haechan says, pocketing the scorecard and a tiny pencil. “It’s only fair that I get to choose the venue. It’s called reciprocity, maybe you should check it out sometime.”

“That’s not what recipro-”

“Omigod, is that Haechan Lee?” A soft whisper and a chorus of giggles sound from behind you. “Who’s he with?”

“Ah, we’ve got company,” you say quietly. “What-”

“Have you never dealt with fans before?” Haechan says, his face changing from a smirk to a soft smile in a matter of seconds, pulling you into his side. Chucking your chin, he leads you over to the first hole. “Pretend they don’t exist, don’t look at the camera. Elementary stuff.”

“I was going to say, what’s our plan of attack, but that works too,” you say, smiling up at him through gritted teeth. 

“You’re the one with the publicist’s strings on your wrists, you tell me, my marionette,” he says, teeing up for his first shot. Closing one eye, he hits the ball, which sails into the hole, first try.

“Was that another pet name?” you say, rolling your ball up to the line. 

“Do you want it to be?”

“If you think I’m some sort of doll,” you say, drawing the club back. “Then you’re very, very wrong.” The shot is clean, sending the ball straight into the hole. Haechan just stares, hand poised above the scoresheet. 

“Not used to being matched, are you?” you say, lifting your chin.

He shakes his head. “Beginner’s luck.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You keep even scores for three holes, but it’s around hole four that you finally gain the upper hand. “Hey, sweetcheeks?” you say, smiling as his stiffens at the pet name, facing away from you as he tees up.

“Yes, angel?”

“What’s the Korean word for sand again?” 

“Molae,” he says automatically, looking back at you. “But why-” His club jerks forward a little, and the ball rolls to one side, settling neatly into the sandtrap.

“Oops,” you say, sticking your tongue out. You hit your ball, which slides forward, nestling only a foot or so away from the hole. 

Haechan swears rather badly in Korean, fuming as he shuffles to the sand trap and hooks his ball out, only for it to fly across the green and into a rock pit. “You did that on purpose.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” you say, teeing up.

“Is that so?” Haechan says, stretching, pulling off his jacket in a way that’s way too runwayish to be an accident and slinging it over his shoulder. Running a hand through his dark hair, he cracks his head from side to side, exhaling softly.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, focus on your shot,” he says innocently. His t-shirt rides up a little, revealing an ostentatious Gucci belt buckle, and a strip of golden skin, scored with lines that only come from hours at the gym. 

“Haechan, if there’s one thing you should know about me,” you say, head tilting to one side as you line up your shot. “It’s that I’m not easily distracted. Not by you, not by anything.” With a flick of your wrist, you send the ball spinning into the hole.

“How did you get so good?” Haechan says, glaring at the scorecard like it’s done something terrible, as he marks down your strokes.

“I thought we said no personal talk,” you say, nudging your chin at his ball, sunk deep into the rock pit.

He makes an annoyed noise, lower lip pushing out. “I meant about, like, deep, dark and personal stuff. We’re allowed to chat, aren’t we? It is a date, after all. It’s weird if we know absolutely nothing about each other.”

“Tell you what,” you say. “We’re both competitive people. For every stroke under par you get, you can ask the other person a question. How’s that?”

Haechan nods, a competitive gleam in his eye. “You’re on.”

After the painful ordeal of Hole Four, he manages to go two under par on Hole 5. “Okay. Tell me. How did you get so good at mini golf?”

“Birthday parties,” you say. “There were two places in my town where kids had their parties - the bowling alley and the mini golf course. So, as you can imagine, I got pretty good at both.”

“Huh,” Haechan says. “So you’re not from downtown LA?”

“Is that really your second question?” You snort as you place your ball. “A Wiki search could tell you that.”

He shrugs. “Humor me.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I didn’t grow up near the industry, and I went to acting school at Stella Adler. I only came out here after I got the role on Physician’s Guide.”

Haechan nods, an odd expression on his face. “Must’ve been nice. I was born and raised in Beverly Hills, went to high school at Harvard-Westlake. Not a whole lot of variation there.”

His looks pensive, a little wistful, and the question is halfway out of your mouth when you remember the game. Focusing on your shot, you sink the shot, just one under par. “But you travel a lot, right? I feel you I remember you mentioning visiting your dad on location and stuff. Going to Korea?”

“That’s true,” he says, scribbling on the scorecard and motioning you to the next hole. “But you know how traveling is - a hotel is never really a home. I’ve seen quite a bit of the world, yes, but at the end of the day, I’m always right back here.”

A visual of Haechan - young, chubby-cheeked, dragging a single suitcase through the LAX - flashes through your head. You know it’s ridiculous, given the fact that he probably had an entourage and a million security guards, even as a kid, but the feeling of loneliness tingeing his voice is unmistakable. Something Mark said, weeks ago, curls into your consciousness. I can’t imagine being a kid and having that kind of scrutiny. 

Setting down your ball, you set about tackling Hole 6. Coming just on par, you watch as Haechan sets up. He moves meticulously, sharp eyes analyzing each ridge and bump in the worn astroturf, twisting the blunt putter in his hands with precision, scoring one under par. Marking it down with a careless stroke, he turns to look at you, leaning on the chrome shaft of his putter. “Why did you decide to become an actor?”

“Does that not qualify as deep?” you say mildly, placing your ball on the turf of Hole 7.

“Well, if it’s only because of fame, or some equally bad reason, I’d want to know that,” he says. “Considering how closely we’re going to have to work, on both the film and whatever this is.”

“Honestly? I’m in love with creating,” you say. “I’m constantly bubbling with ideas and energy, and getting to actually take all that fantasy and actually spin it into something workable, lucrative, touching? There’s no better feeling.”

Bracing yourself for a derisive snort or a biting insult, you hit the ball, which ricochets off the rock in the middle, jumping back down the course until it’s nearly in stroking distance of the hole. Looking back at Haechan, you find him staring at you, head tilted slightly. “What?”

He shrugs. “Not the answer I was expecting, that’s all.” His shot knocks his ball against yours, pushing you both closer to the hole.

“You know you just gave me an advantage, right?” you say.

“Think of it as a gift,” he says. “So you’re not too far behind.”

“How gentlemanly,” you say, sending the ball forward, so it’s only a few feet away from the fluttering red flag marking the spot. Haechan steps up, and putts his ball into the nearly exactly the same place. “Stalking me now?”

“You know, there’s limited space on the green,” he says. “I’m not meaning to be a poor shot.”

You step up onto the brick edging, wedging your putter between the two balls. With a flick of your wrist, you send the ball spinning into the hole. “Who’s a poor shot?”

“One below par,” he says, pulling out the scorecard. “Ask away.”

“Hm,” you say. There is one question you do want to ask, but the memory of Haechan’s rule, NO TALKING ABOUT PERSONAL STUFF, stops you. “Why did you get into acting? I know the answer you gave to Vogue wasn’t the whole story.”

Haechan takes your place on the brick edging, gently putting the ball home. “I didn’t want to, for years,” he says. “It seemed like a lot of work, and my dad wasn’t home much.” 

He looks off towards the spinning blades of the windmill marking Hole 9. “My mom pretty much raised me, and she always wanted me to be a normal kid, considering. So I figured I’d be a doctor or a lawyer, something useful, stay out of the spotlight because I knew that’s what she wanted.”

As he speaks, he starts walking toward the final hole, ball and putter in one hand. “But then, like I said, I was cast in that film by Yuta Nakamoto. Well, not so much cast as handed the role, since my dad was the lead. Working on Reparations...it showed me a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“That the world is not a dream factory,” Haechan says, a little bitterly. “Everything has its going price, even people, and at the end of the day, it’s easier to just be what people want you to be.”

“But that’s not you,” you say. “You give me so much shit for listening to my publicist, for trying to play by the rules. You operate on your own system.”

“Do I?” he says, laughing softly. “I’d already won a Young Artist Award by the time I was sixteen, my publicist was just waiting until I was legal and he could sell me as Hollywood’s sexy dream boy. Everything I did was put under a microscope, and so yeah, I gained a bit of a rep and got famous for it. But you know the thing about reputation? It needs to be upheld.” 

He rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “God, I don’t even know why I’m saying all this, it’s not as if you care or understand.”

Annoyance prickles up your spine. “That’s a little bold to say. Who says I don’t feel the same way?”

“You?” Haechan laughs. “You’re so new, how could you? Going to acting school, selling out to cable, how could you possibly understand-”

“-understand what it’s like to pretend?” you say. “Haechan, I’ve been pretending since the day I got to Hollywood. Pretending I know how where to go, how to act, how to talk to producers and directors and actors, pretending I think my acting’s worth shit. You really think I don’t understand how under all the glitz and glamor and award shows, this industry is just a beautiful web of lies?”

You don’t realize you’ve been moving forward until Haechan’s heels hit the brick siding of the course and he trips a little. “I don’t stay because I’m delusional or chasing fame,” you say. “I stay because I genuinely love making art and bringing to life these characters. Maybe you think that’s selfish or naive, but when you’re in love, you make allowances.”

Haechan looks at you, jaw set. “And I’m in love with acting, Haechan. Even if certain aspects bother me or I have to make horrible sacrifices, I’m not giving up on this life.”

You stop speaking, breathing hard, heart beating out of your chest. Your body thrums with the adrenaline and truth of it all, with the surprised - and slightly impressed? - expression on Haechan’s face. It’s only when you hear the chime of a phone camera behind you, a few excited whispers, that you remember that you’re not alone. You’re never alone. The thought makes you angry and reckless and a little dizzy, all at once, and it’s with this that you lean forward, pressing your lips to Haechan’s. You want a show? I’ll give you a show.

It’s quick, chaste, and from the expression dancing in his brown eyes, he certainly wasn’t expecting it, but it seems the actor in him is always working, as a gentle smile crosses his face. Leaning to pull you in for a hug (the cameras go off again) he whispers, against your hair: “What was that for?”

“That’s my marionette strings being pulled,” you say. Something warm stirs in your belly, like a singular butterfly just scratching the surface of its chrysalis, but the memory of lipstick smeared across his skin, the constant mocking set of his lips, the constant condescension dripping from his lips, flashes through your mind, and the butterfly is crushed under a tide of annoyance.

Haechan clears his throat. “Ah. Right.” Taking your hand, lacing your fingers together, he walks you to Hole 9, looking like the perfect couple. “Loser buys lunch?”

“Done,” you say, the familiar snark biting into your voice. “You’re so confident you’ll pass the windmill, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” Haechan says, popping the p. The final hole is a one-and-done trick shot, the entrance blocked by the blades of an oscillating windmill, and from the looks of it, you need to be very specific with your placement. Haechan squeezes one eye shut, then chips the ball. It sails, over the blades, bouncing off the guardrail before slipping neatly into the hole. “You were saying?”

Blowing out a derisive raspberry, you set up your ball. Bank shots are cheating, in your mind, but if you need it to win…

You jump a little as you feel Haechan pressing into your back, arms going around you, hands settling above yours on the pink pommel of your golf club. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he says innocently. “So you’re going to want to aim left, since the blades are slightly facing right, aim for the t-bar over the hole. It’s a simple stroke, if you’ve got good hands.”

His lips are very close to your ear, the ends of his hair tickling your own, the hard press of his chest and thighs reminding you how much he’s worked out for his greaser role. You wriggle a little, trying to break his hold, but he stays put. “Ah, ah, ah, focus on your shot, angel,” he coos.

“You’re impossible,” you growl. Pulling back your putter, you focus in and hit the ball. It sails up, bubblegum pink plastic glinting in the sun - then the windmill blades swing and send it sailing into the nearby water trap.

“Haechan,” you say, turning around, face full of thunder.

“Ah, ah,” he says, grabbing your wrist as you aim a punch at his chest. “Strings, remember? Don’t be a sore loser, it doesn’t look good on you.”

“You cheated.”

“Wouldn’t have had to, if you didn’t pull the sand trap shit,” he says, hefting his club over his shoulder. “I’m feeling pizza, let’s go.” Taking your hand again, he starts walking back towards the clubhouse.

“Why are you so good at this game?” you ask, sighing.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask?”

You knock into his shoulder. “No, I genuinely want to know.”

Haechan stops, blowing out a breath as he looks at the spinning, whimsical lights of the golf course. “I used to come here a lot,” he says softly. “My mom would take me for mini golfing and ice cream on nights when my dad wasn’t home for dinner.”

The heavy implication sits between you, tangible, ugly. “I’m sorry,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze.

He looks down at your hand, then up at your face, eyes guarded. “For what?”

You can feel the answer in your throat, on the tip of your tongue, but Rule #4 flashes through your mind again, its stern claws hooking into your throat and stealing your words. “Nothing. I’m just glad we’re here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, the first real smile you’ve felt all day sliding onto your lips. His eyes follow the movement, lashes brushing against his high cheekbones. That thing, that butterfly feeling from before, strokes your belly again, leaving you feeling queasy. “So, what’s your favorite pizza? If it’s Hawaiian, I might break up with you.”

Haechan laughs, a little taken aback, but recovers quickly. “Sicilian. I’m all about the crust.”

“Okay, the crust is good, but the cheese to sauce ratio…”

* * *

**REDDIT: Posted by r/CherryBerryPie82 - 2 months ago**

Hey Reddit, tell me your celebrity encounters. Trynna put together a list of folks I should FMK if I ever make it in Hollywood lol.

_Jaehyunsbutter22 | 30 points | 2 months ago_

Met Mark Lee at a Starbucks. Super sweet, did not mind at all that I basically swore at him for two minutes before asking for his autograph. He’s taller than I expected IRL tho.

_letmeloveu37 | 12 points | 2 months ago_

I met Jeno Lee and Jaemin Na once? I work at a restaurant that attracts a lot of celebrities (no flex ahaha, most of them are just looking for a quiet night out so I don’t bother them) and they came in, near the end of my shift. Super nice, Jaemin even asked me about my Ryan scrunchie (apparently he loves Kakao Friends lol) and Jeno had the cutest eye smile, pics don’t lie. They left a huge tip and a huge smile on my face.

_Piepieamericanpie | 43 points | 1 month ago_

Met Hyunjin Hwang at a bar once. He called me pretty, bought me and my friends a round and wound up dancing on some tables with…Lee Know? I was kinda blasted so don’t @ me but both of them are gorgeous uwu

_Stayarmyzen | 62 points | 2 days ago_

Okay, so I realize this thread has been dead for a bit, but omg this is too good. I went mini golfing with a friend, and as we were waiting our turn on one of the holes (there was a couple in front of us) and one of them turned. And who is it but HAECHAN FREAKING LEE? As in, Midnight Love, Often, that Haechan Lee. He was with this really pretty girl, I think she’s his co-star in an upcoming film (blanking on her name) and they were so cute, chatting and teasing each other, and she also kissed him at one point I think? I was trying not to be creepy about my staring. I saw them again later, eating at the clubhouse restaurant, and you could see the chemistry. Like, even barefaced and sharing a giant deep dish pizza they just look so good together. Idk if they’re dating or whatever, but if so, they’re both damn lucky.

UPDATE: She played Dr. Mars on APGTLAM, and is shooting Cherry Bomb with him atm. #showmance?

_Juicelvr23 | 65 points_

wld fully gnaw my right arm off to see haechan irl ngl

_Myloveinstars | 7 points_

i am simping for Dr. Mars 28/9, u are so lucky

_Grabtreetrash | 16 points_

okay but how do people have these encounters, what kinda water y’all drinking in LA

* * *

**EXT. LOS ANGELES KOREATOWN - NIGHT [SEPTEMBER]**

“-and for years, I didn’t know that tangsuyuk was made with pork, not chicken,” Haechan says, taking a swig of soju, Rolex flashing in low light. For this week’s date, he’s insisted on bringing you to LA’s Koreatown, showing you all his favorite restaurants and variety shops that he remembers as a kid, buying little trinkets from street sellers and poking stone turtles in places that have you slapping his hand, reminding him that he’s a grown-ass adult, not an excitable toddler. 

“Really?” you say, shepherding a bite to your mouth. It floods across your tongue, sour and sweet. “Ah, this is good. But I can’t believe you couldn’t tell...pork’s one of the few meats that doesn’t taste like chicken.”

“It’s like a hamburger,” he says, shrugging. “Like, you know it’s beef, but at a point, you just get so familiar with the shape and presentation, you wouldn’t really be able to know if they swapped it out for bison, you know?”

“Okay, before I thought you had a point, now I just think you’re horribly unobservant,” you say, taking a sip of soju, green bottle clinking as you place it back onto the scarred wooden table. 

Haechan gives you a withering look. “And here I was, thinking you were half decent, but I can see that I was wrong.”

You just snort. The last month has been a blur of shoots and weekend dates, and as crazy as it sounds, your original dislike has started to fade. Underneath all the prickly posturing and the arrogant cat’s smile, Haechan is, really, just another guy. A rich guy whose cradle was a tinted limo, whose swaddling clothes were red carpets and Armani suits, but you’ve seen rare cracks in him. Like the way he’s obsessed with Overwatch or tends to make his biggest decisions using Rock, Paper, Scissor, Shoot. The way he has to stop and pet every dog you come across walking through downtown LA.

Hanging out has become a sort of habit, to the point where you’ve started coming to his trailer between scenes, watching him play video games or just sitting, quietly, poring over scripts. You don’t talk very much, but you can’t help but feel that Haechan is a bit lonely. You rarely see him texting or catching up with friends, instead choosing to read or game, with that same intense focus he always gets on set. So you’re not close, by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a certain level of comfort present now. 

Then, there is that...thing, that you haven’t really talked about. That moment on Hole 8, when you’d had him backed up against the bricks, passion singing in your voice, the smell of turf and expensive cologne making your head spin, a butterfly struggling to hatch in an unwilling stomach.

“Hey,” Haechan waves a hand in front of your face. “Space cadet.”

You look up, chin propped on your hands, and find him staring at you, the edge of his lip curling up into a small smile. The red paper lanterns overhead cast a golden glow on his skin, making him look a little ethereal, a little otherworldly. “What are you thinking about?”

“Um,” you cough, reaching for your soju again. “Tangsuyuk. KTown. You grew up pretty close to here, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I was born in Seoul, but moved to LA with my parents when I was two. I wasn’t allowed to go out much, but for some reason, my dad always felt like KTown was safer. Whether that’s logical, I don’t know, but…”

Haechan reaches forward, silver chopsticks closing around a clump of cold noodles. “I think I feel most at home here, honestly. Not a lot of people have seen my movies, so I can just walk into the local bakery, speak Korean and be Donghyuck, just a normal guy who loves iced americanos and sweet buns.”

“Donghyuck?” 

“My birth name,” he says, tracing out the letters on his placemat. “My mom wanted me to keep it when I started acting, but my dad thought it wouldn’t be easy for interviewers to pronounce on sight. He’d always called me Haechan, his full sun, anyway, so it just stuck.” 

“Donghyuck,” you say, rolling the syllables around your mouth. His chopsticks pause, clinking a little against the plate. “Which do you like better?”

He laughs a little. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.”

You shrug. “I’m not anyone. Are you Donghyuck or Haechan?”

He grabs another chunk of noodles, sucking them into his mouth without much regard to the flavor. “I’ll be honest, not many people know my real name. They just come in assuming it’s Haechan, and I never care enough to correct them.”

His voice is measured, even, but you don’t miss the slight catch, the agitated tap of his chopsticks. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “‘Do you...I mean, did your dad even ask?”

“My dad doesn’t ask much,” he says quietly, blowing out a breath. “That’s never really been his strong suit.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” you say, setting your own chopsticks down, leaning forward a little.

“He’s a complicated guy,” Haechan says. “You know how when you’re a kid and you think your parents hang the moon and stars? That’s how I felt about him growing up. Like, I knew he was an actor and all, and that he was good at it, but he was also my dad, you know? We should look up to our parents.”

As he speaks, he digs his chopsticks into the long-forgotten scallion pancakes, shredding them viciously. “But as I got older, I learned a lot, especially being around my dad on set. And I learned that he wasn’t the amazing saint I thought he was. He yelled, he swore, he’d smile in people’s faces and then say awful things about them when we got home. When his films or plays did well, he was happy, but when they didn’t, he’d ‘go out for a drive.’ My mom and I wouldn’t see him for days, weeks, even.”

Oh. “Oh, Haechan, you don’t have to-”

“I don’t know if you keep up with the industry gossip, but he’s filing for a divorce later this year,” he says. “He’s waiting for the Silk promotions to die down, but he...he’s dating a woman, a co-star, who’s closer to my age than his.”

The pancakes are in ribbons now, the chopsticks making a horrible screeching sound as they skid against the china plate. It now makes a lot more sense why Haechan reacted so viscerally to dating a co-star, why he was so mad at the producers for asking, why he seems to deflate at any mention of his father. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he laughs drily. “Every family has its demons, I’m not special. I can complain all I want, but it’s like you said - I’m an industry baby. I’ve never had to rough it, never had to worry about food or money, I had the choice to become an actor.”

“But there’s a tradeoff,” you say. “Those of us who weren’t child actors, we at least had some semblance of normality. The way you grew up, it doesn’t sound like you got to be much of a kid.”

Haechan shakes his head. “What I’m talking about, it’s old wounds. I’ve mostly come to terms with it by now. To be honest, striking out on my own with work has helped a lot with that. Johnny’s been more of a father to me than he has, at least in recent years.”

Johnny, a man not ten years his senior, doing a better job at parenting him than his actual father. The thought makes your heart squeeze a little. “That’s great. But you shouldn’t have to accept everything else.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Haechan laughs bitterly. “Maybe it’s meant to be. Maybe the tradeoff is that I get everything I ever wanted, in exchange for purgatory.”

“Hi, guys, how are we doing?” The waiter, an energetic, sandy-haired surfer type, zips in. His eyes flick to Haechan for only the briefest moment, but it’s clear that he recognizes you. 

“Great,” you say, smiling brightly, placing your hand over Haechan’s, squeezing just a tiny bit. The last thing you need is Twitter blowing up with a grainy picture of him looking sad on a date. “Could we have the check please?”

You pay quickly, pulling your jacket around you as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s unusually chilly, even for early October, and you shiver a little, the thin anorak not entirely protective against the mist.

“Cold?” Haechan says. 

“If you’re offering to give me your jacket, I’m refusing,” you say. “Sexist pig.”

“What makes you think I’d ever let you near my jacket?” he says. “It’s Italian leather, like I’d let you put your sticky paws all over it.”

“Glad to know you really care about cows and the environment.”

“Shh, worry about your wheatgrass smoothies later,” he says, flicking your forehead slightly, all traces of sadness gone. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to get something warm. There’s a dalgona stall just around the corner.”

“So you’re calling me a hippie, now you want to ply me with sweets,” you say, nudging his shoulder lightly, and he throws a careless arm around you. “You certainly know how to play women, Donghyuck.”

You feel him stiffen slightly at the name, but it’s so minute you think you might’ve imagined it. “Why would I need to play you when I already have you, angel?”

The pet name rolls from his lips, saccharine and sarcastic. Right. Tilting your chin up, staring at the golden bokeh of the paper lanterns strung from building to building, you blow out a breath. “Fine, sweetcheeks. Let’s get dalgona.”

Haechan leads you to the little stall, tucked between the now-closed fish market and a smoke shop boasting a huge array of spun-glass wares. Surprisingly, it’s still open, a little old lady bundled up in a red plaid scarf handing you two small pans filled with sugar, and pointing you towards the open brazier.

“You’ve made dalgona before, right?” Haechan says, knees jutting only a little bit on the low stool. You throw him a withering look. “Just asking, it’s not a common candy outside of, like, Korea and KTowns, at least in my knowledge.”

“I didn’t live under a rock,” you say. “Just not, you know, Beverly Hills.”

“Fair,” Haechan says, poking at his pan intently. The sweet scent of melting sugar fills the air, and you both busy yourselves with stirring and adding the baking soda. 

“Hey, you know what’s coupley?” you say, pulling your pan out and walking over to the pressing station. “Let’s make designs for each other. No peeking.”

Haechan rolls his eyes only slightly. “And I suppose you’ll want to post a picture?”

“Everyone loved that picture of us at the spa,” you say. “You really pulled off the panda ear headband.”

“Did I?” Haechan pulls a face, speaking in that shrill, cutesy voice that makes you whack his arm. “Fine. Let me just-”

He reaches around you, grabbing a flat pressing tool, bringing the smell of cardamom and musk whisking across your nose. What a perfect night this would be, you think. Just a boy and a girl, exploring Koreatown and making each other cute candy. If, you know, you weren’t famous actors playing pretend in the biggest show of all: life.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you pour the molten sugar onto wax paper, pressing it down with the round metal tool. What to do for a design? “Oh, mine is so cute,” Haechan coos. “You’ll love it.”

Casting him a sideways glance, at the slight flush to his cheeks, the smile on his face as he draws on the hardening sugar with a skewer, at the lack of his usual smirk, it comes to you in a flash. A flash of blue paper lanterns, of sweet and sour pork, of red bean buns and a lonely boy playing mini golf.

Pulling up the pressing tool, you grab the skewer and set to work on the hardening sugar. The letters flow from your hands, sweet and smooth. “Tadaa!” Haechan crows. He thrusts a ridiculously large spun-sugar candy at you, emblazoned with something that greatly resembles…

“Testicles? You seriously drew me a ballsack?” you say, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, what? It’s cherries. Two cherries. Because, you know, Cherry Bomb, and all?”

“Keep your day job,” you say, patting his head as you nevertheless accept the lumpy dalgona. 

“What’s yours then?” he says, pouting.

You don’t answer, instead handing it to him. He looks down at it, ready to scoff...and then his face goes blank. “You…”

For maybe the first time in living memory, you’ve rendered Haechan speechless. More than speechless, motionless, as he blinks down at the candy bearing his name, written in Hangul. His real name. 

“What do you think, Donghyuck?” you say softly. 

“I-” he swallows, once, twice. He looks at you, lips parted slightly, eyes wide like he hopes you’ll pull the answer from his throat.

“I can’t believe it,” you say. “I’ve really struck the Full Sun speechless. If this was all it took, I should’ve brought candy to the chemistry reads.”

At this, Haechan laughs, a hand falling to your waist, head bowing forward. “God, you’re like no one else, you know that?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he says, giving your side a little squeeze. “You know, I think I may have been wrong about you.” 

“In what way?” you say, heart jumping a little as his head dips towards you again.

“You’re just...different,” Haechan says, eyes suddenly serious. “Good different, I mean, not like, I-”

Before you have time to register that you’ve made him flub his words for the second time that day, you feel a tap on your elbow. “Are you enjoying your candy?” the little old woman says, smiling toothily (she’s missing quite a few).

“Oh, yes, sorry,” you say, fishing in your pocket for your wallet. “We’ll pay, we were just-”

“No, no,” the woman waves a hand. “Please, take them for free. Money can’t buy love, after all.”

With a fond smile, she pats you on the hand and walks away, humming what sounds like a ballad. You look at Haechan, and find the same mirth dancing in his eyes. Grabbing his hand, you walk away from the dalgona stall, peals of suppressed laughter shaking your shoulders. 

When you’re back out on the main street, you stop, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh man, that was such a drama moment,” you say, finally letting out the stream of giggles you’d swallowed.

“It really was,” Haechan says, running a hand through his hair. Under the dim streetlight, with that big smile on his face, nose scrunching, he looks so carefree. There’s a lightness in his eyes as he chucks your chin, something he does a lot, but this time, his hand lingers. 

“It’s been a while since anyone’s called me Donghyuck,” he says, smile thinning just a bit.

“I’m sorry,” you say, sensing the change in mood. “I just meant it as...I didn’t mean to-”

“It felt good,” he says. “Really good, actually.”

You meet his eyes, and find them uncharacteristically soft, his head tilted to one side, looking at you with a certain curiosity. It’s like you’ve finally cracked the code, finally found a fracture in the porcelain mask he wears as a face, like all you need to say is the magic word and he’ll wake up from whatever dreamy sleep-spell has been cast on him. “Donghyuck.”

He breathes out a sigh, lips parting, fingers ghosting across your jaw as he pulls your chin up, like a sunflower seeking to taste the first rays of su-

“HAECHAN!” The shout comes up behind you, along with a million clicking shutters. “Haechan, over here!”

Suddenly, the world is filled with flashes and the rough shouts of paparazzi. “Hey, look over here,” one calls. “This’ll make the cover if you just give me one smile, love.”

Haechan pulls his baseball cap lower over his face, and you know he’s wishing for a face mask. “Let’s go.”

Pulling out his phone, he calls an Uber, and within minutes, you’re sitting in the back of a modest silver Corolla. “Hey guys, the AUX is yours if you want it,” the driver - Rafi, by his driver’s tag - says, smiling in the mirror. “And there’s water and mints in the back.”

“Thank you,” you say. Haechan just stares out the window, lips twisted in displeasure. It’s only when he shifts, hand falling from his pocket, that you see it: the dalgona, crushed in his left hand, little more than sugary dust. 

* * *

**BUZZFEED CELEB: Top 5 Iconic Haechan Lee Quotes**

1\. “Honestly? I didn’t go to the Oscars this year because I’ve gone a few times with my dad, and I guess the novelty’s just worn off. Not all that glitters is a golden statuette. If I get a nomination though? That’s not something you turn down lightly.”

2\. “Working on Often was a revelation. Wendy Shon is a dream of a director, and the way she weaves stories is so intricate and beautiful. It’s rare to find someone who’s so purely into the craft but also knows how to captivate an audience.”

3\. “I didn’t tell the public about my relationship with Denise because frankly, it’s nobody’s business except ours. Our personal lives have nothing to do with my acting or her singing. In regards to your question about the people I’ve been with since...I really don’t have a comment. I don’t know how people get off on prying into celebrities’ private lives, but pro tip? Don’t.”

4\. “Trust is earned, not given. I think you learn this very quickly in Hollywood.”

5\. “My favorite childhood snack? Dalgona. Hands down.”

_COMMENTS_

Loviedove34: wow what a savage

Chickennotporkk: honestly i cant imagine growing up in hollywood like him, what a king

Littlewhitelies12: 3 tho? i saw the clip for that one, he was lowkey rude to the interviewer

Udonnoodz: I honestly think he’s right though, sadly. Fans can be so intrusive into stars’ lives, and it’s not helped when interviewers ask questions like this. He could’ve answered in a softer way but that’s just not his brand.

Causeofmyeuphoria97: I know everyone’s always saying Haechan’s sassy, unbothered, sexy, whatever mood hits them, but have any of you considered how lonely his life must have been? Growing up with a famous actor dad, getting into acting yourself at such a young age, it can’t have been entirely healthy. I’m glad, if anything, that he’s being so candid. People don’t talk about this enough.

* * *

**INT. BLACKPINK NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT [OCTOBER]**

The club is loud, the drinks overpriced, but you’re not here to drink or dance. No, you’re sipping on a hot pink Cosmo (virgin, though your drinking mate doesn’t know that) in the weirdest form of a Hollywood business meeting, wishing you could be pretty much anywhere else.

“So glad you could make it,” Chris Bang says, flashing you a smile full of dimples and distrust. He sits across from you, arms thrown over the back of the plush booth. Beside him is a pretty, if a little intimidating woman, who you assume to be a junior producer from Byun Studios. “Blackpink is one of the hottest clubs in the city, or so I’m told. You may know better than I.”

“Ah,” you say, taking another sip of your drink. The taste of lime and cranberry juice whisks across your tongue - devoid of vodka or triple sec, it’s just sour. “Well, Cherry Bomb has certainly been keeping me busy, I can’t say I’ve had much time to go out.”

“So I hear,” Chris says, toasting you with a flick of his wrist, whisky tumbler glinting under the neon lights. “Johnny’s been sending me the dailies, and, as I expected, your work is splendid. You can’t have too much more to go, can you?” 

“A couple weeks, I think.“

“Good, right on track,” Chris says. “As is your star-crossed love life. You’ve made a few covers, you know that?”

You nod. “Glad to be giving Star and People some business.”

“Spoken like a true producer,” Chris says. “Good to know you haven’t gone method.”

Golden sunlight, sugar-spun candies, the spinning blades of a windmill. “Yes, well, you do pay me the big bucks to act, after all,” you say, blinking away the memories like the shower of glitter slowly swirling through the air on the dance floor.

“Precisely,” he says. “Which is why I wanted to call you here today. Jennie?”

“Hi, I’m Jennie Kim from HR at Byun Studios,” she says, voice high, clipped, giving her the aura of a very professional porcelain doll. “We just wanted to touch base about the scene you’ll be shooting next week.”

Something sour curls in your stomach, definitely not cranberry juice. You know where this is going. “Which one is that?”

“The love scene,” Jennie says. “Between yourself and Haechan.” 

She clears her throat. “Now, Cherry Bomb hasn’t received a rating yet. Obviously, more PG cuts for certain countries, mainly East Asia, but overall, we’re trying to push the limits of PG-13 for the North American and European releases. Which means…a bit of legwork on your part.”

You hope you’re mistaking the double entendre in her words as she looks at you, steepling her fingers slightly. “I know John usually likes to give his actors a lot of flexibility,” she says. “And we obviously want everything to go as safely and smoothly as possible.”

“Of course.”

“But, well, you know the source material,” Chris Bang breaks in. “This is the scene, any Jellie fans are practically begging for them to tear their clothes off, after all the slow burn. Not saying anything against slow burn, Johnny’s is damn near artful, but, well…” 

He winks, like you’re both in on the joke. “Think of it as a reward. A spicy little treat for all the viewers who’ve been with you thus far.”

“What you’re saying is, you want me to shoot the scene as...intimately as possible,” you say, feeling the words pulled, unwillingly, from your lips. “Within the bounds of the rating, of course.”

“Right on.” 

Every part of you is screaming that this is wrong, that Johnny would be furious, that the studio shouldn’t be meddling in something so intimate, that Haechan will be so angry if he finds out that the producers are trying to mess with you again. “I’m not entirely sure whether Haechan will be onboard, I think he trusts John’s judgement a lot.” As do I, Bang.

“Ah, well,” Chris Bang says. “That’s actually why I asked you here, not him. Lee’s a bit of a loose cannon these days, as I’m sure you know.” His eyes flick to the dance floor, and you’re sure he’s remembering your costar’s Ibiza scandal.

“But you,” Jennie says. “You’ve been perfect for the studio so far, I heard it was you who talked him into the relationship that’s been making headlines, wrapped him around your finger, giving us a ratings bonanza before production is even over. Do you know how many people have already entered the premiere ticket lottery, just for a chance to see you two together?”

Her eyes gleam, dark and sharklike under the blue strobes, making her look a little ghoulish. “Woman to woman,” Jennie says. “You’re about to become both the idol and envy of teenage girls everywhere. Everyone is going to wish they were you, in some form or another, whether that’s as shallow as wanting to kiss one of Hollywood’s golden boys, or as deep as relating to the love Jack and Ellie share. The love you create. But, like every illusion we paint here in Hollywood, it’s fragile. One pop, and you’ll be letting a lot of young, impressionable girls in need of a strong role model down. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“Or, you know, you could keep trying to change the world with your on-call room hookups,” Chris says. “I’m sure being a career TV doctor is so fulfilling creatively.”

That hot, sick feeling, bile mixed with cranberry and lime, wells up in your throat again, along with a sobering, icy sense of logic. They’ve got you backed against the wall two ways, making you an offer you can’t refuse, unless you want to cross them. “No,” you say. “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”

The words come out soft, wooden, like the creaks of a Trojan horse’s wheels. You can almost feel the marionette strings cutting into your wrists as you shake both their hands, then stand up, pulling down your ridiculously short bodycon dress. You make sure to signal the bartender for a real drink before you exit the club.

* * *

**HAECHAN [SNS]**

ME: hey so i just got back from blackpink

HAECHAN: ah shit why didn’t u ask me

HAECHAN: their martinis are awesome

ME: it wasn’t for fun, it was for a meeting.

HAECHAN: ?

ME: Chris and Jennie from the studio came and made…

ME: a proposal ig

HAECHAN: oh jeez

ME: you know how we’re shooting the sex scene next week?

HAECHAN: how could I forget angel? 

ME: stfu sweetcheeks

HAECHAN: yeah i do

HAECHAN: did they say something

ME: they want us to amp it up ig, push the rating for the fans

HAECHAN: lol did you tell them to fuck off

HAECHAN: they do this every Seo film, and it’s not rly up to them. 

ME: this is serious, they essentially threatened me with blacklisting, plus some weird feminist spin from Jennie that just felt wrong. 

ME: however you feel about the studio, please do this for me, i can’t afford to get a vote of no confidence from the studio right now

ME: just swallow your pride and do it for me please?

HAECHAN: fine

HAECHAN: i don’t like it but fine

* * *

**EXT. LAKE BALBOA, LOS ANGELES - DAY [OCTOBER]**

His eyes beg the question: what are you doing? Ellie doesn’t answer, but her eyes are enough: she wants him, and she wants him badly. He gasps a little as her hand dips beneath the water, closing around where he needs her the most.

You blink, willing the heat to subside from your face as you read over the sides for today’s scene. A light breeze blows across your face, bringing the scent of pine and the cool spray of lake water in through the slatted makeup trailer windows. It’s your last scene, barring pickups, and there’s an excited hum to the air. Everyone but you, it seems, is happy and buzzing, ready to wrap and pat themselves on the back for a job well done. Everyone but you, because you’ll be spending the day naked and wet, the producer’s ultimatum flickering guiltily in your chest like a storm candle.

“And voila, you’re stunning, as usual,” Penny singsongs, brushing a final layer of matte powder over your face. “Today’s the day, right? The last scene?”

“Yup.”

“Do you feel sad? Relieved? A bit of both?” she says, spritzing a cloud of setting spray for good measure, since you’re going to be submerged in water for most of the day.

“I’m honestly just glad to be done,” you say. “Not that I don’t love the process, but it’s been a draining four months.”

“But you start shooting season three of Physician’s Guide in a few weeks, right?”

“Right,” you say, smiling a little at the prospect of getting back to set with your real friends. “I have two weeks off, basically for Halloweekend, then, yeah, I’m back up and running.”

“Well, have fun, but please try to get some sleep, dear,” Penny says, standing you up and walking you behind the folding screen. You have a joke with Yangyang that you can always tell when you’ll be shooting sex scenes, also known as lingerie days, because the costume underwear they give you is much nicer, as it will likely be seen on camera. But somehow, the white, virginal underwear on the hanger marked ‘ELLIE’ feels different from your other scenes. 

There’s certainly a level of heat on your skin that you don’t normally feel, a constriction in your chest as you pull on the white retro blouse and poodle skirt. Sliding your feet into patent-leather Mary Janes, you thank Penny and walk out to set. The crew is assembled, down from its usual numbers, the crew mostly female for your comfort.

To your surprise, Johnny Seo is on set, standing near the lake’s edge with Renjun and Haechan, already dressed in his classic leather jacket, hair shining with pomade. “-want this to look really natural,” Johnny is saying, then looks up at your approach, smiling widely. “Well, hello, if it isn’t our Ellie.”

“Hi, Johnny, Renjun,” you say, inclining your head. “So what’s the game plan for today?”

“We were just saying that we want to give you as much leeway as possible,” Renjun says, adjusting the ever-present earpiece, its curly tail trailing over one thin shoulder. “We’re aiming for clean, cinematic. But we’re also not going to tell you when or how to kiss, take your clothes off, get into the water, what it is that we want you to simulate. We want you to run with the passion, the heat of the moment, the naturalism. But, please keep in mind, we’re aiming for a PG-13 rating, and we can’t cut around everything.”

Haechan nods, face schooled and professional. And that’s how he is, around Johnny at least. No hint of Jennie’s wrapped around your finger sentiments, or flashes of the openness you’d so sorely won, the way his fingers had gripped your chin as he leaned down, lips dusted with dalgona sugar. 

You shake your head. This always happens, the mixing of your thoughts with your characters’ when you’re so close to shooting a scene, but it’s never this strong, never this consuming, you think, as you go to your marks. 

“We’re good, right?” you say, feeling the claws of the producers settling into your back.

Haechan looks at you, the way your hands are knotted together, the look of wide, near-panic in your eyes, and bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry, you just look so serious,” he says. “At the end of the day, they’re wallets, not actors. I trust that we know each other and our bodies enough to make this happen, so just do what they said: run with the passion.”

You nod, though the knot in the pit of your stomach is still twisted, both at the prospect of letting down the producers and following through with whatever ‘running with the passion’ means. But however you feel, it’s now time to work. Looking to your left as a PA holds up a slate in front of you, you catch a brief glimpse of Johnny and Renjun looking intently at the monitor, pride burning in their eyes as the last scene of the movie is called.

“Cherry Bomb, Scene 127A, marker.” The slate goes clap, right next to your ear, a death knell and a release all at once.

“Ready, and...action!”

You walk forward, shoes kicking up the sand just a little, casting a lash-lowered glance at the boy by your side. He leans against the cherry-red hood of his car, watching as you release the first button on your blouse. It curls open, white fabric peeling away from your body slowly. His eyes drop to your fingers, zeroing in as you release another. They rake back up to your face, begging one question: what are you doing?

You shoot him a challenging look, an answer, as you release the third, forth, fifth, dropping it into the sand. Kicking off your shoes, you reach into your waistband, pushing down the oppressive confines of the skirt. You hear an intake of breath behind you, and smile, knowing how much the sight of you - sweet, virginal, white lace bra and panties on full display as you wade into the water - is affecting him. Turning, with a look that you can only describe as sultry coming over your face, you say, voice husky and teasing: “Coming?”

He stares at you, conflict, lust, and something darker, something less discernible swimming in his eyes before he gives in. Shrugging off his jacket, he pulls his white t-shirt over his head, nearly stumbling as he unbuckles and undos his pants, in his haste to join you. Satisfied, you wade deeper, diving under. The water is cool, refreshing, but you only enjoy it for a moment before you surface, pushing your loose hair from your face. You look at Haechan, at the wet, honey-colored strands framing his face like a starburst, at the absolutely whipped look in his eyes as you swim forward. 

You raise your hand, fingers curling across his chin in almost an exact mirror of how he always chucks yours, except this is different. You’re doing this with the express purpose of kissing him. Looking deep into his eyes, you allow your chest to flood with Ellie’s attraction to him. To the teasing, the shadows, the glittering darkness that consumes you but makes you come running back for more, the banter and the laughter and the stupid moles scattered across his neck like constellations, the taste of burnt sugar…

You lean forward, closing the gap, pressing your lips to his. Warm, soft, pliant, he allows a moment of acted surprise before diving in. His hands drop under the water, closing on your hips, fingers sliding across lace and skin. It’s just a light touch, a stage kiss, but juxtaposed against the cold water, heightened by the adrenaline in your veins and the dark shark eyes of Jennie and Chris looming over you, you stop thinking and just become.

Your hands slide, almost of their own accord, into his hair, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss. Nibbling his bottom lip just a little, you feel a thrill at his gasp, the sound colored with genuine surprise, slipping your tongue out to dance with his. You feel his arms pulling tighter around you, hands moving to your thighs, drawing your legs around his hips as your kiss, lips becoming clumsier, faster, less controlled.

A soft moan rolls from his throat as you tug on his hair, and you’re rewarded by a nip on your lips, the caging of his arms around your back, pressing your bodies flush together. You reach down, intending to simulate guiding him into your slick heat, but suddenly you feel something hard brushing against your wrist. Your eyes flash open, and you have just enough wherewithal to plaster a look of slight pain on your face, like you’re feeling the stretch, the burn of the first time. Your heart rate spikes, a shiver rolling up your spine, skin singing with goosebumps as you look at him, and find the same heat mirrored in his eyes. 

For one beat, two beats, you stare at each other, trembling on the edge of a precipice, of a months-long dance, at the edge of something hot, cold, soft, hard, sweet and bitter all at once, and then it’s like something snaps and all you can do is fall.

You pull him in again, and he bends toward you hopelessly, lips crushing against yours. Hands bracing against your thighs, he begins to roll his hips - on camera, he’s in control, the stoic, broken greaser finally making love to the girl who pulled him from the darkness, but in reality, you’re both in the process of slowly losing your minds.

Hands on his shoulders, you grind your hips down, meeting his every thrust. Heat blooms, sultry and low, as your pussy skims across his thigh, only a thin scrap of lace separating the feeling of skin on skin. A soft moan, unbidden, falls from your lips as your clit bumps against his hip bone, and you feel the tightening of his hands, the little whispered yes against your lips, dragged from him like a confession.

_Fuck._

Haechan growls a little as you begin to “ride” him in earnest, his muscular thigh slipping between your legs, sparks of pleasure dipping up your spine. He drops his head to your neck, pressing soft kisses, not to mark, but to soothe. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear as you continue to move, the delicious coil of pleasure in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter, and you don’t know if he’s talking to you, Ellie, Jack, himself, or the universe. His arms tighten around you as your body begins to shake, and you know he can feel the exact moment when your orgasm hits you, when the pleasure hits a peak, when his lips press into just the right spot on your neck. 

Waves of pleasure roll through you, burning through your body like wildfire, leaving nothing in your head, nothing in your hands, only light and heat and the soft scent of cardamom and smoke, pulled from his neck as your head falls to his shoulder.

“Cut!” The stage bell rings twice, all personnel scrambling to make sure that it was all recorded and saved in high definition, from every angle possible. “Normally I’d go for another take or so, but that was...stupendous. So without further ado, that’s a wrap on Cherry Bomb!”

The set explodes in cheering and clapping. “Oh, my,” a cam op says, fanning herself. “I thought I was going to combust, just looking through the lens.”

Haechan sets you down, your feet finding purchase on the sandy lake bottom. He looks at you, a smile that’s half amused, half curious on his lips as you walk to the bank and let a PA wrap you in a fluffy white towel. Out of the water, away from Haechan’s touch, cold reality floods back, quicker than the water sluicing off your feverish skin.

“You know, if you wanted to use my thigh to get off, you could’ve just asked,” Haechan says quietly.

You turn to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” he says. “I’ve never felt anything like that before, shooting a scene, the energy, I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, throwing it into honey-colored spikes. “God, you’re really something. You felt it too, right? What happened in the water…”

You can feel the pull in your chest, the answer at the tinge of lust coloring his words, but as you look at him, at the hands that were, just minutes ago, trailing a path of fire across your skin, all you can feel is emptiness. Looking down, you can almost see the phantom indentations, the strings that the producers have placed on both your wrists. 

Your mind is whirling, your lips bitten, a brush of heat still itching your lower belly, but you can’t. Haechan’s a mess, a playboy, a loose canon, and the way you respond to him, the way he so easily brings out your raw emotions bubbling to the surface, the way he strips you to your most genuine self and makes you fluttery, lightheaded, it’s dangerous. Being out of control in Hollywood is dangerous, most of all with a guy like him.

“You were right, you know,” you say.

“Huh?”

“You once said that Hollywood isn’t a dream factory,” you say. “That everyone has a going price, and I think...I found mine. Haechan, what we did, what I did, what this whole has been, it’s acting. Every touch, every kiss, every date we’ve had has been manipulated by the producers. This, this was just acting, none of it was real.”

“What do you mean?” He takes a step back, eyes searching your face, brightness slowly draining from his eyes.

“Everything that just happened, every touch and move, I could feel the producers just over my shoulder,” you say, words tumbling fast. Even if they’re not entirely true, they need to be said, because the alternative is much, much worse to admit. “They told me to do it, so I did it, it’s as simple as that, and I feel used.”

“You feel used?” Haechan says. “You were the one who suggested this whole thing, who kissed me on the golf course, who came all over my-”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING SEE?” you cry. His words, the hurt expression on his face, cut into you like knives, stripping away the walls you’ve put up against him, but you fight it, hurling cruel words at him, as if it’ll help. “It’s a game, Haechan. It’s never been more than that. We’ve been pawns in the producer’s game for months, and whatever you might be feeling, whatever you might be implying, it’s not real. It can’t be, because you know what would happen if anything happened between now and the premiere, if we showed any cracks to the producers, if we broke any of the rules of the contract, this would crash and burn and we’d never be able to forgive ourselves.” 

Haechan just stares at you, and for only the second time in your time together - not together, yes together, ah, fuck - you’ve struck him speechless. But it’s not a nice silence, a triumphant silence. It’s ugly and charged and full of unvoiced feelings and the producer's machinations. “Wow,” he says quietly. “You know, I thought you were different, but I was wrong. You’re just like every other role-hungry sheep in this town, you’ll do whatever the fuck the suits want, bend until you break and think nothing of the consequences, all for a good show.”

“Consequences?”

Haechan laughs, the sound humorless, brittle. “You are the most naive, obtuse actress I have ever had the misfortune to work with. This, I’m glad we were able to finish shooting, but I...I’m done. I’m done being the producer’s dream boy, being your pawn, being manipulated into thinking-”

He shakes his head, jaw clenching, as he gestures between your shivering bodies, not meeting your eyes. “I’m a man of my word. We can keep this going in public until the premiere but after that...we’re done. My favor from you? Never speak to me again.”

* * *

**MARKY MARK [SNS]**

ME: ~~I fucked up.~~

ME: ~~I really really fucked up.~~

ME: ~~I miss talking to you and I’m really fucking lonely and I just got broken up with and I don’t know what’s going on.~~

ME: ~~Fuck I’m just going to try to do this in person.~~

* * *

**INT. HOLLYWOOD HILLS - EVENING [OCTOBER]**

The DoorDash is late, you have a slight sniffle after so many late nights shooting in the fast chilling fall weather, and after the long headache that is the LA freeway, you make it to Mark’s house, which is nestled just outside of Silver Lake. The dumplings are cold, the egg buns a bit squished, but your culinary concerns quickly evaporate as you stand on his doorstep, hand poised above the doorbell. 

Besides being busy, you’re pretty sure Mark is still avoiding you because of, you know, the time you’d dragged his advice and told him to fuck off, so you’re a little wary as you ring the bell. The door opens, and you’re greeted by Milly. “Hey,” she says. Brushing a lock of reddish-brown hair behind one ear, she leans against the midnight blue doorframe. “What’s up?”

“Is Mark home?”

She nods, fingers knotting together. “He is...he’s a little busy in the studio at the moment though-”

“Milly? Who is it?” Mark’s voice sounds from inside the house. He appears in the foyer, holding a horribly ugly pug puppy in his arms, a pink flowery apron tied loosely around his neck. “Oh.”

“Hi,” you say. “I, um, was going to ask you to go for a drive, I brought-”

“Panda Express?” Mark says. 

“P.F. Chang’s had a wait,” you say apologetically. “But I got you steamed dumplings and watermelon juice?”

Mark looks from the greasy bag, to the slightly pathetic expression on your face, to Milly, who gives him an encouraging smile. “I’ll come if you bought wontons.”

You didn’t, in fact, buy wontons, but you end up in the Hills nonetheless, parking your old Toyota at a sandy outlet just overlooking the Hollywood sign. Spreading out your feast on the faded hood, drawing your knees to your chest, you take a moment to drink it all in, looking down at the glittering sprawl. “It’s so beautiful,” you say softly. “When you strip away all the lies, all the plastic, all the pretense, it’s still a city of angels. Just, dark ones with their wings half falling out and Christmas lights wrapped around their wrists that electrocute them when they try to fly.”

“So you’ve finally realized?” Mark says this without malice, only a slight crunch as he dips a spring roll into a tiny cup of soy sauce and bites down.

“I’m sorry,” you say, turning to look at him as he takes a sip of watermelon juice, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I really am. Not just for yelling at you and saying those horrible things, but also for always putting my problems on you, expecting you to give me some magic solution.”

Mark looks at you for the first time, eyes dark and serious. “You’re right, you did say some things, and it made me mad. Firstly because you were insulting my life and my choices.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I realize that we’re all on different paths, and it’s not right to tear someone down for their life choices. Really am sorry, Marky.”

He looks at you, mouth twisting wryly. “I know you are. You were in a bad place, but that still doesn’t make it fair to take it out on me like that. We’re best friends, and you know I always just want what’s best for you. But I am sorry that I responded badly. It’s not mature to just run away from your emotional problems, and I think I’m just beginning to realize that. I was mad not only because of what you said to me, but because the way you were talking, it was self-destructive as fuck.”

You nod, and he continues. “Look, I think we all have a lot to learn. I’m the last person to say that I’m a perfect actor, or a perfect person, we’re all messy but-”

“Me moreso, probably.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Mark says. “Artistry comes so naturally to you, acting is like breathing. It’s the other side, the business part, that worries me. How much you’re willing to give up for a production. I remember on Physician’s Guide when the makeup staff got mad at your eyebags, but what you didn’t tell them was that it was from staying up so late rehearsing. Caffeine and sheer willpower kept you going.”

“Remind me to thank Nana for his death coffee.”

Mark laughs. “You would do almost anything for a production, which is equal parts scary and amazing. And in terms of Cherry Bomb...you’ve sacrificed so many months, and given up so much. And carried out this crazy producer’s plan of dating Haechan.”

“And even that didn’t work out,” you say bitterly. 

“Wait what?” Mark says, eyes wide.

“Yeah, he, um…” Very briefly, you recount the story of the lake shoot, paring down on some of the graphic parts, but Mark gets it. “Basically, the producers told us to spice it up, but it got a little bit intense, and he basically confessed to me. I rejected him, hard, and he told me never to speak to him again.”

“Ah,” Mark says. For one beat, he looks at you, lips pressed together, then bursts out laughing. 

“MARK, THIS IS NOT FUNNY. MY LIFE IS IN SHAMBLES, AND YOU’RE JUST LAUGHING?!”

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Mark reaches over you and grabs a dumpling.

“Gross, piggy,” you say, as he pops it into his mouth, grease dripping from his fingers.

“It wouldn’t be this gross if you’d gone to P.F. Chang’s,” he says, reaching for a napkin. “And I’m sorry, but this is exactly what I thought would happen. You spend that amount of time with someone, you do all the date things like you did, it’s nearly impossible to stay hating someone. And I mean, you’ve never exactly had trouble with guys, right? It’s just that the guy you seduced this time, knowingly or unknowingly, happened to be your fake boyfriend Haechan Lee.”

He pauses, taking a bite of dumpling. “And he must’ve gotten the hint in there somewhere, whether that was on a date, when you were shoving your tongue down his throat in the lake, whatever. And when you rejected him, he took it hard, because he’s Hollywood’s Full Sun. Nobody rejects him. So you bruised his ego and made him feel used.”

“I know.”

“So what’s done is done,” Mark says. “And my only question for you is...were you using him?”

You consider, grabbing a red bean bun and chewing, although you might as well be chewing carpet. Everything, every little touch, every word, is running through your head on overdrive. For the first time, you allow yourself to really think, to allow the butterfly that’s been living in your stomach, rent free for the past few months, to take a fluttery breath. 

_Haechan, claiming to be a romcom expert, making up stupid pet names, distracting you at the golf course, sniping at you over Korean food, making you that stupid, lumpy dalgona, kissing you breathless, hands tight as if he never wanted to let go._ “No,” you say quietly, the bitter truth stinging your tongue like nettles.

**EXT. THE RED CARPET, REGENCY VILLAGE THEATRE - DAY [DECEMBER]**

The day has finally come. The screaming fans, the flashing cameras, the plush red carpet under your too-tall heels. It’s December 20th, exactly five days before the cinematic release of Cherry Bomb, and you’re here today for the advance screening. 

“You look gorgeous,” Penny says, giving your hair one final spray. You’ve gone for a very old-school Golden Age of Hollywood look, flowing champagne-colored silk, luminous pearl and diamond-studded barrettes and a bold red lip.

 _I don’t feel gorgeous._ It’s been a fast two months - right after Cherry Bomb wrapped, you had about two weeks to kick back (mostly spend typing and deleting texts to Haechan) before jumping right back into season three. True to form, the first day was spent shooting a dream sequence threesome between yourself, Yangyang and Jeno’s characters (a lot of laughter and modesty socks), and by the end, you were already feeling happy and back at home. So what if seeing the Cherry Bomb billboards makes your chest constrict, if seeing the Vogue cover - Haechan tipping your chin up with one finger, looking down at you with a passion you barely remember from the shoot itself - makes you want to run down the street screaming? 

“And for the last touch,” Penny says. Opening a black velvet box, you find a necklace winking up at you. It’s beautiful, set on a silver chain with twin red rubies cut into smooth orbs, delicate green-gem ‘leaves’ and stems bursting from the top. “From Cartier’s new Cherry Bomb-themed line. Compliments of John Seo.”

“It’s so beautiful,” you say, chest welling with a pride and love for the production that you haven’t felt in months. 

“Isn’t it?” she places it around your neck, flicking the lobster clasp closed. The gems sit, warm and heavy, glinting just above your breastbone. Every element together, every little shade and shimmer, all comes together and makes you look, if not feel, like the starlet everyone’s expecting. “Now go out and shine. You deserve it.”

You look at Penny, the kindness in her eyes, stamped with crow’s feet that can only come from smiling a lot. At the hands, rough from all the makeup and costume designs she’s constantly making for you. Someone you know and trust, who always makes set life just a little bit better, who would ask how you are and genuinely want to know. 

“Thank you, Penny,” you say, placing your hand over hers. “Truly. You’ve been such an amazing support for me on set, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, no, please don’t,” she says, smiling gently. “I’m just so glad I got to work with you. Just…promise me one thing. Cherry Bomb is about to change your life forever. Whatever you do, don’t forget that wherever you are, whatever parts you choose to show to the public, whatever roles you take on...your first responsibility is to yourself.”

You press your lips together. The last five months have been so exhausting, all the lies, all the fake smiles, one eye constantly over your shoulder on the lookout for cameras, one ear constantly open for a fateful call from the network. Come what may after tonight, you can’t do this again. And Penny’s kindness, the fact that in this glittering, poison-laced spiderweb of a city, there are so few people who really see you for you, you realize what you need to do.

With a last thank-you to Penny, you stand, and walk out of the green room. Rowan is immediately by your side, adjusting her little earpiece. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Congeniality herself,” she says. Something akin to a smile - the closest you’ve ever seen from her - flickers across her red-rouged lips. “You clean up nice.”

“I’m glad,” you say, pulling up the plunging neckline just a bit.

“Hey, stop that,” she says, tugging it back down. “Okay, so here’s the objective for the day: walk the gauntlet, sign some autographs, then meet up with Haechan and get a bunch of coupley photos taken at the media wall, then go inside and they’ll show you to the theater booth for screening.”

Rowan looks at you, really looks, and for once her eyes aren’t calculating, seeing you as something to sell or market. “You know, if nothing else, Cherry Bomb has shown me that I may actually have made the right choice, working with you.”

“How so?”

“You’ve got a lot more backbone than I initially gave you credit for,” she says. “Following the producers’ plans, shooting such an intense movie. I...I don’t say this often, but I may actually be proud of you on this one.”

You look at her, at the woman who’s played God with you for the last five months, pushed you and pulled you in every direction, all for a good show. “Thank you, Rowan,” you say. “You’ve shown me a lot, I really think you’ve helped me learn and grow as a person.”

“Mmhm?”

“Yes, I’ve grown into a person who’s learned that they don’t need a self-interested bitch running their life,” you say, smiling sweetly. “As of right now, you’re fired.”

Rowan stares, dumbfounded, as you walk towards the exit. “You-I fucking made you,” she splutters. “You were no one before you hired me. I helped you with the producers, I’ve been behind every photoshoot, interview, every livestream that’s put you where you are today.”

“Yeah?” you say. “Made is right. I’m tired of you posing my limbs and putting words in my mouth all the time, and more than that? I’m tired of you not respecting me as a person, not trusting me to make my own decisions, because at the end of my day, it’s my life to live, not yours.”

With one final verbal punch, you throw open the back door to the theater. A dark-suited security guard is immediately by your side, walking you around the side, to where the photographers and fans eagerly wait, cordoned off behind velvet ropes. The red carpet stretches out in front of you, a yawning chasm, and at the end crouches both the devil and the angel that’s been with you for the last five months - the glittering marquee that reads CHERRY BOMB: A JOHN SEO FILM. 

“This is fucking it,” you breathe. _Every moment, every word, every choice, has led to you being here at this moment. It’s showtime._

Stepping onto the carpet, you begin to walk, the screams and flashes around you turning into a cocoon, a tunnel of light, a gauntlet to walk. Once upon a time this might have been intimidating, but you’re no longer the same actress you were five months ago. You’ve seen some of the best and worst of Hollywood, and you’ve managed to come out the other side. Smiling graciously, you smile and wave, trying to sign every poster and picture thrust at you, thanking and thanking and thanking as people gush praises for a movie they haven’t yet seen. 

The end of the carpet approaches, and as you reach it, you find what’s waiting for you. Haechan stands at the black-and-red media wall, posing as a cluster of badge-wearing photographers from every magazine and online journal clamber for his attention. He turns towards you, and you have to suck in a breath.

He’s dressed in a suit of midnight velvet, honey-colored hair floating in layers around his face, so different from the pomade you saw on set so often. His tie is gold, the same color as your dress, and as he smolders, turning to look over his shoulder, you realize what’s pinned to his jacket, right over his heart: a jeweled brooch, shaped like two cherries. _You’re matching._

“Hey, she’s here,” the photographers shout. Everyone turns to you, cameras flashing as you walk over to Haechan. He looks at you, and for one heartbreaking moment, you see the blankness, the cold hurt that hasn’t faded one bit since you last saw him. Everything you’ve been battling for months, the push, the pull, the undeniable connection he touched on at the lake, it’s all there, written across his face, as is the way you so thoughtlessly crushed it. Will he even touch you? For a moment, you wonder if he’s going to push you away. Then, you feel, rather than see, the shift, as he pulls you into his side, heart-shaped lips softening into a beatific smile, hand sliding onto the silk at your waist. 

It should be the perfect moment, the perfect picture, the two star-crossed leads finally together. This is everything you’ve dreamed of, since wanting to become an actress all those years ago. Posing on the lush red velvet carpet, bodies bathed in the setting Hollywood sun, about to watch your hard work brought to life, hear the gasps and sighs of the audience as your love story plays out on the silver screen.

But all you feel is empty, because under it all, it’s not real. You’ve been playing yourself for the last few months, in every sense of the word, doing whatever it takes to sell this perfect image, but it’s only succeeded in hurting you and hurting the man by your side. The man who’s responsible for the highs, the lows, the butterflies, everything you’ve genuinely felt shooting this movie. The man whose touch burns your skin, even through the silk separating skin from skin.

Suddenly, the sun feels too hot, the flashes of the cameras too bright, the dress too constricting. Looking to the event personnel behind the photographers, you find them giving a thumbs up. Breaking away from Haechan, you make what you hope is a dignified exit, waving to the crowds outside before practically dashing into the venue. “Bathroom?” you choke, head spinning, and a security guard grabs your arm, leading you to the closest one. It’s a gender-neutral single, and you barely are able to bolt the door shut before you crumple to your knees in front of the toilet. Retching, you empty out everything you have, tears burning your eyes as you dry heave. 

A knock sounds on the door. “Let me in.”

“Go away,” you choke, wiping your mouth with your hand, which comes away scarlet, stained with your lipstick.

“I can hear the puke hitting the water. Open the fucking door or I’m kicking it down.”

Sighing, one last heave bringing up nothing but spit, you grab a wad of paper towels, doing your best to blot your face before unlocking the door. Haechan stands in the doorway. His eyes do a quick flick over your body, snagging on your smudged lipstick, the blackish tears glittering on your cheeks. “Jesus, are you ok-”

You retch again, practically throwing yourself at the toilet. Haechan walks over to you, shiny dress shoes clicking on the marble tiles, then you feel him pulling your hair gently back from your head. When you’re quite certain everything is out, you pull the lever, watching whatever errant food was in your stomach washing away. Taking a few shaky breaths, you take a moment to collect your thoughts. “Aren’t you going to say something snarky?”

“No,” Haechan says, brushing off his thighs as he walks over to the sink, turning on the water.

“Well, if you’re not here to gloat, then why are you here? You hate me.”

The water shuts off. “I don’t hate you.”

You laugh, standing, walking to the sink and washing your hands, swishing water around your mouth, watching him in the mirror as you dry your hands. “You haven’t seen me in nearly two months. Last time we talked, you literally told me you never wanted to speak to me again. Whatever happened to that?”

Haechan looks at you, and for once, his eyes aren’t glinting with humor or even anger. They just look tired, empty. “I’ve had some time to think. And I realized…”

He swallows. “I was being unfair. Everything you said was true that day - we’ve always been costars, nothing more. Our relationship was always a sham, created by the studio for a few cheap internet stories, the contract written on a piece of notebook paper.”

You clench your fists, that hot, fluttery feeling slamming back into you as he looks at you, eyes earnest, speaking boldly, coldly. “I can’t be mad at you for telling me the truth,” he says.

“And what’s that?” you whisper. Everything is moving too fast, thoughts and memories and sensations whirling around your head as you turn, hands gripping the basin as you look at him.

“The truth is that I’m a fucking fool,” he says, taking a step forward. Another step, and he’s less than a foot away, dark eyes burning into you with that look, the one that always strips you bare, but this time, it feels different. “A fool for agreeing to this at all, a fool for thinking that any of the connection we shared was real, a fool for believing that you could ever see me as more than the Hollywood playboy I’ve spent so many years making myself into.”

He looks at you, bottom lip trembling a little. “I opened myself up to you in a way that I haven’t in years, telling you about my dad, my life, sharing with you some of the darker parts of myself, and for what? You said it yourself, it was just acting on your part. So what does that make me?”

Haechan’s eyes rove over your face, eyes, cheeks, lips, like he’s hoping he’ll find the answer somewhere. But you don’t have any answers - your words, your breath, nearly everything has been stolen from you, so you do the only thing you can think of. Grabbing him by the back of the head, you pull him in and kiss him.

Haechan stiffens, lips still and closed, and for a moment, you think he’s going to push you away. Then...you can feel the moment when his body gives in. Groaning against your lips, his fingers fan over your jaw, holding your face in place as he kisses you back, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. His lips are hot, feverish, sloppy - it’s like his body is moving faster than his mind, and all he wants is to touch, be touched, feel that it’s not just in his head. A heady, warm feeling spreads through your body as his hands drop to your waist, pulling you into him, as your arms wind around his neck, your lips sliding against each other again and again, desperate and hungry and drowning.

 _“Fuck.”_ Haechan pulls back, breathing hard. “What was that?”

You look at him, at the confusion and lust and something that looks a bit like hope swimming in his eyes. And it’s this that guides your mouth to the truth. “In the beginning, I only conceptualized our relationship as a tool. It was just a mechanism so that the producers would leave me alone, so that I could please my publicist and Byun Studios, but somewhere along the line, I think I started to realize that I didn’t hate you so much. After you got over the initial condescending headassery, I started to see more sides of you. The fact that you’re able to tease me, push me, act like a total ass, while also showing me real parts of yourself, making me want you in ways that I shouldn’t, it scares me. I’ve spent so much time building a wall around myself, making myself into the perfect obedient actor, I hated that you never accepted my bullshit, that even when you said the cruelest things, they always had a hint of truth.”

You take a breath. “One of the first things I learned in Hollywood is that everyone has to fend for themselves, or else they’ll be eaten. I was afraid that by admitting defeat, that I’d actually fallen for the lies we’d been feeding ourselves, the lies spun by the producers and the media, that by admitting that I actually liked you in a real way, that I would lose. That I would lose this insane game that was never really a game, but somehow it turned into one. So I’m sorry about how I freaked out and pushed you away, and if you truly don’t want to see me after today, I get it. But just know...you’re not the only one who fooled around and caught feelings.”

Looking up at Haechan, it’s now your turn to search for answers, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as he looks at you, head slightly tilted, eyes narrowed. “I-”

“You don’t have to say anything now,” you say. “It’s a lot to process. I know we have to be getting back to the premiere, but...just think about it. I know I need to.”

You walk out of the bathroom, apologizing to the security guard for your meltdown, then make your way to the theater booth reserved for the cast and directors. As everyone files in, along with the select audience, you feel yourself relaxing. Come what may, you’ve made your peace, and even if the movie flops, even if the rift between Haechan is too great for you to fix, you’ve aired it out. Now all you can do is wait. 

As the lights of the theater blink out, as the intro music begins to swell, you have only one thought in your head. _You fucking did it._

**_“Delectable, sexy, fresh...Cherry Bomb is a stunning success.” - The New York Times  
_ _“An atomic (cherry) bomb of a movie, it will leave you sad, aching, but also with a sense of peace and closure all at once.” - Rolling Stone  
_ _“Great work by Seo, helped along by two stellar leads, it’s sure to be splashed all over the Oscar shortlist for this year.” - Robert Ebert_ **

* * *

**INT. YOUR APARTMENT - DAY [DECEMBER]**

You set your iPad down, a small smile coming over your face as you close the news app. Standing up, you walk to your stove, giving the steaming pot of milk a whisk before pouring it into a mug. Dropping in two tablespoons of hot chocolate mix, you give it a stir. It’s the day after the premiere, and you still feel like you’re coming down from the dream. After a whirl of interviews, the gauntlet of compliments and shaking the hands of an endless line of producers, you stumbled on home and into bed. You weren’t there to see it, but the audience left absolutely raving, not to mention the critics.

A knock sounds on your door. Who on earth could be here at this hour? Yawning, you walk over and pull it open. Standing on your doorstep is a shivering Haechan, barefaced, wearing nothing but a snow-dusted black hoodie and simple jeans, docksider shoes in no way appropriate for the weath-

Haechan lunges forward, lips pressing to yours in a bruising kiss as he crushes your body against his. He tastes like salt, heat, just a hint of the cherry lip balm you know he likes to wear, the feverish, hard press of his lips against yours making your head spin. 

Your hands fist into the front of his hoodie, pulling him across the threshold, kicking the door shut with your foot. Haechan groans as you push him against the wood, undulating your body against his, seeking friction to soothe the roaring fire ignited by his touch. A million thoughts burst through your head, a million words and things you should say, but it’s all being erased, swallowed by the feelings swelling through your chest like wildfire. 

With a gasp, you feel him tug your body, then it’s you who’s pressed against the door, Haechan’s hands on your thighs, drawing them around his waist as he pins you against the wood with his hips. Dropping his head to your neck, he begins to place soft kisses on the delicate skin, which soon become nips, then full-on bites as you slip your hands into his hair, the low moan rolling from your throat spurring him on, waves of pleasure rippling up your spine. He ravishes your throat, hips bucking against yours ever so slightly, spurring on the gradually forming coil in your belly until you tug on his hair, making him pull back. “Playtime later,” you say, voice soft and husky. “Bedroom, now."

Slipping down from his grasp, you lead him to your bedroom. In retrospect, you might’ve planned a little better, had you known that one of Hollywood’s golden boys was going to show up today, but as Haechan climbs over you, he doesn’t seem to mind the sweatpants and fuzzy socks, the oversized Minnie Mouse sweatshirt. 

Your heart is beating from your chest as you look up at him, at the softness in his face, the way he looks at you like you’re his whole world. Though you’ve kissed and done more before, it’s always been in front of a camera, always with a goal in mind, but here, now, just the two of you, it all feels so real, so raw, so intimate.

Pulling him down over you, your lips meet again, but it’s softer, slower, more of a sultry waltz than the furious tango from earlier. Haechan sighs into the kiss, a shiver rolling up his spine as you draw your legs around his hips, pulling him flush against you. You can feel the evidence of his arousal already, the hardness against your thigh, the way he nibbles your bottom lip, tongue darting out, sweeping across yours in a way that makes your head spin.

He looks at you, a question in his eyes as his fingers slip into the hem of your sweatshirt. Nodding, you raise your arms over your head, and he peels it off, throwing it to the side. You feel a little embarrassed at your plain, no-frills black bra, but the way Haechan’s eyes widen, teeth digging into his bottom lip, you could’ve been wearing the prettiest Parisian lace, and he wouldn’t care. 

Reaching around the back, he flicks the clasp open, pushing away the fabric impatiently as he drops his head. Kissing down the length of your neck, he takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking lightly, while his other hand slides down your thigh, kneading the flesh. “Fuck,” you breathe, feeling your back acrch, almost of its own accord, up into his touch. 

Pulling Haechan back up, you push his shirt away before kissing him again. Everything about him is addicting, the press of his soft lips against yours, the needy little sounds he makes in the back of his throat, the heat rolling from his bare chest, he way he holds himself away from you with one arm, trying not to crush you as his other hand slips down, toying with the edge of your lounge shorts.

Pulling down the soft fabric, he sucks in a breath as his fingers brush your bare pussy. “Fuck,” he murmurs, as he feels just how wet you are. “Can I-”

He looks down, a hungry look in his eyes. You nod, grinning a little at how, yet again, you’ve managed to make him stutter, but as he slides down, pushing his hair back from his forehead, giving your clit an experimental kitten-lick, the smile quickly turns to a moan. 

Haechan keeps his eyes on yours, gauging your reactions as he begins to eat you out. It’s like rehearsing scenes all over again - he’s finely attuned to your body, reading exactly which places draw a breathy moan, which places have you bucking up against his mouth, how to make you squirm, thighs closing around his head. One hand goes to your hip, metal rings cold against your burning skin, holding you down as he pleasures you halfway to heaven. 

You fall back against your pillows, eyes squeezed shut, waves of pleasure seeping through you as he adds a finger, stroking you again and again until the knot in your stomach is painfully tight, your thighs trembling, lips bitten, moans rolling from your throat. One particularly deep stroke, pushing right up into your sweet spot, and it all snaps. White hot pleasure rolls through you, burning away all conscious thought, leaving nothing but shivers and heat and light and the thought of _Haechan, Haechan, Hachan._

He pulls back, letting you come down just a bit, but you don’t want to. Not with the dregs of lust already beginning to build again, not with the obvious tenting in his pants - you want to make him feel good too. Placing a hand on his chest, you kiss him again, and though you can taste yourself on him, it doesn’t matter as you twist, pushing him onto his back. 

A spark of heat jumps into his eyes as you straddle him, and he watches you intently as you slip your hand down, undoing his belt buckle, pushing his pants down and off. He shivers as you take him in your hands, the first stroke causing him to moan, head falling back into the mess of pillows. “Fuck, don’t, I won’t last,” he breathes, looking up at you pleadingly. 

“Yeah?” you say, smirking. “When’s the last time you were with someone?”

“Notsincethecontract,” he mumbles.

“What?” you say, giving him another stroke, watching his fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles going white. “Didn’t hear that.”

“Not since the contract,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Congratulations, you’ve truly turned me into an incel.”

You pause, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” Haechan huffs. “I’m a man of my word, who do you think I am? You tell me not to get off, I won’t.”

“Is that so?” you say, reaching over to your dresser, pulling out a foil-wrapped condom. “And if I said I wanted you to? Inside me?”

“Fuck,” he says, a soft exhale that quickly becomes a moan as you smooth the rubber onto him, then sink down, sliding him, in by inch, into your slick heat.

You hiss a little at the stretch, because, yes, it’s also been a while since you’ve anything bigger than your fingers inside you. The burn quickly turns to pleasure, however, as you begin to move. You can feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, warm and fluttery, as you take him in again, rolling your hips in a way that has both of you moaning, swearing - a mix of English and Korean swears rolling from his pretty lips as you ride him, hands coming up to bracket your hips. 

“I’m...so...close,” Haechan groans. “Fuck, I-”

You can feel it, the trembling in his limbs, the shortening of his breath, the wild racing of his heart under your hands. Lacing your fingers into his hair, you pull him up into a sitting position. His head falls to your shoulder, arms caging your torso as he adjusts to the new angle. The first snap of his hips pushes you over the edge, waves of pleasure blazing through you anew, and you hold on for dear life as he thrusts, once, twice, three times, then comes with a cry, muffled in your shoulder as he bites into the sensitive skin, the sting only pushing you higher.

When it’s over, you still for a moment, breathing heard, sweat-slicked skin pressed together, hearts beating as one. Haechan is the first to speak. “Fuck.” He presses a soft kiss between your breasts, shifting a little as he pulls out, leaning over just enough so that he can toss the condom into the bin.

Looking down into his eyes, hands braced on his shoulders, you bite your lip. “What are you thinking about?” he says, giving your waist a little squeeze.

“I’m just thinking,” you say. “If you told me six months ago I’d make the cover of Vogue, attend a premiere for my Seo movie, get a five-star review from Robert Ebert, get dicked down by my annoyingly hot costar, I would never have believed you.”

“Hot costar, huh,” Haechan says, tilting his head to the side. “Is that what I am to you now?”

“That’s all you got from that?” you laugh. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I seem to recall confessing quite a lot of things to you last night. Can I assume that this is your answer?”

He smiles, a real, toothy smile, none of the smirk or pretense marring his handsome face. “I don’t know,” he says, and for a moment, your heart stops. “I’m not sure the message was very clear. I might have to try sending it again. Once, or twice, at least.”

“Once or twice, huh?” you say, brushing a strand of honey-colored hair behind his ear. “I might need more than that. After all, I’m a slower learner. Part of being a know-nothing rookie cable actor.”

Haechan laughs softly, one finger tracing lazily down your leg, causing you to shiver a little as he brushes the soft skin of your inner thigh. “In that case, we’d better start rehearsing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on Tumblr. Come find me @neocitybynight ♥︎


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